


Lucien

by Pessial the Pink (pessial)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Interesting NPC, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pessial/pseuds/Pessial%20the%20Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sheltered disciple of Dibella wanders through Skyrim, right into an imperial ambush.</p><p> </p><p>(contains purple prose)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of Helgen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucien is distressed and dependent but not completely useless, and Nords don't really like magic.
> 
> * * *

My head was pounding as I slowly rose from unconsciousness and tried to sit up, which wasn't made easier by the fact that someone had bound my hands. I was in a horse-drawn cart, together with some blurry figures. Or at least that was what they looked like until my eyes managed to focus.

“You, girl, you are finally awake,” a voice said over the rumbling of the cart.

Despite the pain, the error made me smile. It was understandable and I didn't mind the confusion. The House of Dibella in Daggerfall always had a few patrons who, while being lovers of men, preferred their playmates less masculine, and our Lady had blessed me with a slender build, fine skin, full lips and delicate features. Gifts that – as Mother Lorraine had put it – would have been a sin against the Divine, to waste by training me mainly as a scribe, advisor or healer. 

The temple had taken me in at age 8. It was done sometimes, if a peasant's child showed promise to have our Lady's favor. When time had revealed that in my case the promise held true and that my disposition agreed with it, it was decided that I would be allowed to serve our Lady, instead of being placed in a lesser calling, like it was done with children who were less favored. In accordance with the path chosen for me, while I learned to read and write, basic arithmetic as well as the basics of restoration and illusion magic. But the focus of my training was on dance, playing the lute, holding conversations and being pleasing to the eyes and ears of patrons. I am told it shows in my poise and manners. Consider also that the temple's restoration mistress had aided my appearance by arresting the already sparse growth of my facial and most of my body hair, and you will likely understand why, in my disheveled state and nondescript travel clothes, it wasn't easy to tell whether I was a boyish and flat-chested young woman or a young man.

I should probably say that the House of Dibella is no brothel, and her disciples in the temple have little commonality with the wenches who peddle their trade in inns and sometimes in the streets. Our Lady's domain encompasses beauty and love, and as her servants it is our eternal duty to always foster and nurture those, where they can be found. However our Lady is also the Divine of earthly delights, and her disciples are encouraged to entertain generous patrons of the temple more intimately too, if they are so inclined. My inclinations went towards men, which agreed well with my service to Lady Dibella, and quite a few patrons regularly requested my company and showed their appreciation with generous donations to the temple and endearing gifts to me. Disciples on my path usually take the oaths when juvenile charm makes room for adult beauty, which for me would have been in another 3 to 5 years, but taking the oaths is not for everyone. It wasn't for me.

In the more intimate service one often has to find satisfaction in the patron's pleasure. And while it would have been inexcusable to let any patron feel as if he were less than desirable or unable to completely satisfy me, there were very few I was always excited to see. One of those, a wealthy Nord, who often was away for months between his visits, became my secret favorite over the years. Not because of his generosity, although he never failed to bring me a pretty bauble from his travels when he came to us. Not because he was especially attractive, although despite nearing his 50-th year he was powerful and in exemplary shape, and I loved playing with the thick fur on his chest and tracing his scars. Not even for his personality, although he never failed to make me laugh and there was something in the way he smiled and held himself that told me he could take me whenever he wished and made me wish he would.

It were the tales he told when I rested in his embrace. Pictures painted with words, of snow-covered mountains, of sun-flooded groves and mighty streams. Songs of heroic deeds and glorious battles. Whispers of forgotten secrets and mysterious artifacts. Words flowing from his lips into my eager ears, capturing my imagination and kindling a deep longing to see those wonders.

In my 20-th year this desire finally burned so hot that I approached Mother Lorraine and respectfully asked for leave to travel the world - a request that she, who knew vastly more about the world than I, only hesitantly fulfilled. On a crisp morning in First Seed, accompanied by well wishes from my sisters and brothers, adorned with practical travel clothes and a backpack, a purse with a moderate amount of gold at my belt, my blond hair in a simple braid to my lower back and my blue eyes shining with excitement, I set foot on the road to Skyrim, determined to follow it where our Lady would lead me.

It didn't take long to dampen my enthusiasm. Nature, only marginally tamed by the imperial roads between the cities, is a harsh mistress, and tales and legends fail to mention the discomfort of wandering soaking wet in chilling wind, the annoyance of lacking trivial things like toiletries or clean small clothes or the heart-stopping fear a lone wolf's yellow eyes can induce when the beast ponders whether it is desperate enough to attack man or mer. After my first romantically induced attempts at living off the land I had learned to appreciate the sheer luxury of a hot bath with soap and a properly cooked meal at an inn.

Nature also has it's beauties. The sights I saw on my way were sometimes as breathtaking as I had imagined them when listening to the tales, and while my initial purse grew slim within days, I managed to get by. Sometimes paying with a few songs for my meal and bed, sometimes by thankfully accepting the generosity of a suitor who didn't fancy sleeping alone, sometimes by healing a minor injury for a fee and sometimes by doing menial tasks for innkeepers, in exchange for room and board.

That isn't to say that I traveled alone all those months. I spent most of Second Seed in Skyrim at the cabin of an old woman living in the woods near the White River. In exchange for cleaning, cooking, collecting herbs and helping to repair her home, she taught me the properties and distillation of many alchemical ingredients as well as a bit of her magical skills. The ghostly wolf she taught me to call as my familiar made my travels a fair bit safer, and my newly acquired ability to call fire, ice and lightning would only raise a faint smile from a real mage, but it saved me flint and tinder and was sufficient to discourage the rare hungry beast. When the cabin was fixed I had to leave. Anise had taught me what she was prepared to teach, but her tradition did not apprentice males.

Most of Sun's Height I travelled with a tall, brawny mercenary who had taken a shine to my appearance and demeanour, and who aside from generously paying the bills and offering protection, insisted that a wanderer on Tamriel's roads should at least be marginally proficient with a blade. He bought me one of fine steel, fitting for my frame, but dulled and set out to train me in it's use. I learned to wield it like a new dance, not as a way of fighting. There was never any doubt that at the end of the lesson I would submit, and that the victor would take his spoils. It was an acceptable trade for the added safety. I can find pleasure in submitting to superior strength and Mistress Melisande, the temple's restoration mistress, had taught me well what to do about bruises if a patron liked to play rougher than usual. We parted when we reached a company of fighters that had invited him to join in Skyrim's Eastmarch. They had no use for my talents.

On the first days of Last Seed, I wandered outside Darkwater Crossing, when I had to make way for a large group of blue-uniformed Stormcloaks. I also remember a man on a horse galloping in the opposite direction, when something hit my head and darkness swallowed me.

I smiled at the tall blond man opposite me who had commented on my awakening. "Boy, if it pleases you," I corrected him gently. "Or rather man, seeing that I am nearing my 21-th year."

He scrutinized my face and laughed. “Sorry about that. Must have been a trick of the light.”

He was attractive. Maybe 6'3'' to my 5'7''. It was difficult to tell while sitting. Around 30 years old. Wide shoulders, muscular arms with pronounced veins, strong, callused hands that spoke of practice wielding weapons or tools, a determined looking chin over a sensuous mouth surrounded by a trimmed beard, a sharp nose and grey eyes that held mine a little bit too long to feel casual. I lowered my eyes for a moment before looking around. I did not want to challenge him either way.

My cart was part of a small caravan escorted by imperial soldiers. To my right sat a man who might have been in his 50's. Tall, brown hair and beard, regal bearing and for some reason not only bound but also gagged. The man beside the blond Nord was a skinny dark-haired fellow. The passengers in the other carts wore the armor of the Stormcloaks, like my opposite. My backpack was nowhere to be seen.

I looked down at my bound hands, than back at the handsome Nord. 

“Could you please tell me what happened?” I asked, hopeful that he might be able to shed some light on the situation.

"You walked right into an imperial ambush. Same as us and that thief over there," he replied calmly.

That could not be true. The legion defended the empire and kept the peace. They didn't attack harmless travelers. “And why should the legion ambush me?” I asked.

The man to his left, the one he had called a thief, cursed him. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell." Then he turned to answer my question. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

“We are all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” the Nord answered him serenly.

The serenity of his reply made me laugh, which in turn made me painfully aware of my throbbing head. I slowed and deepened my breathing while I tried to fall into the special mindset that allows me to draw on Aetherius. I hoped that the sun would mask the slight light effects that accompany even a sustained low level healing spell. Skyrim is generally less tolerant towards openly displayed magic than my home in High Rock, and even less than the temple where it could be used for entertainment and stimulation. I suspected that the Nords viewed the use of healing magic similar to certain bodily hygiene procedures. Useful, sometimes pleasant, at times necessary but nothing one would perform in polite company, if one could avoid it and best restricted to houses of healing or the privacy of ones own home. Since arriving in Skyrim I had tried to use what magic I needed covertly, but there was really no place on the cart I could retreat to. The blond Nord gave me a sharp look, when I began, but thankfully he didn't comment.

The thief wasn't done though. "And what's wrong with him, huh?" he asked jerking his head in the direction of the regal looking man beside me.

"Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King," the Nord scolded him.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?" The thief panicked. I would have too, if not for the focus on healing myself.

I had of course heard about Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. The leader of the Stormcloak-rebellion, King-Slayer or True High King, the Butcher or Hero of Markarth, depending on whom you asked. The Jarl of Windhelm, who had split Skyrim into two camps and had fought the glorious imperial legion to a halt, was already a legend in his own right, and I had heard bards sing the man's praise and his condemnation on my travels. He was nobody I ever dreamed of getting involved with. The few times I had seen either Stormcloak or Imperial patrols, I had greeted respectfully and made way. The two times I had been asked which side I favored, I had smiled apologetically and had claimed that politics was too complicated for me. It wasn't my fight. 

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." the Nord answered with a serenity that bordered on the fatalistic.

When we reached the town of Helgen and were lined up for execution, I was paralyzed with fear. There was no trial. In a state of civil war, the legion was apparently allowed to ignore petty details like due process. There was only the headsman waiting. Should by happenstance this misunderstanding be resolved, the temple would be able to extract a wergild for my loss, because I was still a member. But nothing else would come of it.

Our names were called one by one from a list for the execution by a tall nord legionnaire. Lokir, the thief, tried to run and was shot down by archers. A clear sign that there was no escape this way. Finally it was my turn. 

"You!" the legionnaire said after checking his list a second time. "Who are you?"

“Lucien from the House of Dibella in Daggerfall. Please, Milord, this must be some kind of misunderstanding. I did nothing to deserve this. I beg you to show mercy.” I pleaded.

My frantic pleading was in sharp contrast to the composure my fellow prisoners showed. But most of my life so far had not been one of fighting and standing tall in the face of adversaries. Conflicts in the House, minor squabbling aside, were resolved by the mother and the mistresses, and if a patron was agitated it was my duty to appease. Had I been cause for agitation that forced the mistresses to step in, I would have been sternly reprimanded. 

As pitiful as it was, the legionnaire apparently was moved by my plea, or maybe he was just scrupulous.

“Captain! What should we do? He is not on the list.” he addressed his superior

“Forget the list. He goes to the block.” she replied after a moment, and thereby dashed what hope I had left to rectify this situation.

After a short prayer to our Lady, to guide my soul to Aetherius, I took my lead from the Nords and tried to face my fate calmly. If I resisted, I would only be dragged to the block like a pig to the slaughter, and if I couldn't make my way to Aetherius in beauty, I wanted to do it at least with a minimum of dignity.

And so I stood silently with the others, my head held high, outwardly unmoved by the imperial general's speech and a little bit of commotion caused by some unusual noises. And when it was my turn, I walked to the block with measured steps. Or at least that was what I planned to do. The imperial Captain had other ideas and shoved me down on the block. For a moment I was angry at her, for robbing me of even this little bit of dignity, and then everything changed.

The headsman never swung his axe at me. Scales black as the night, horns and spikes like daggers made of ebony, with wings as wide as boat-sails, a dragon soared down from above, and as the beast's claws gripped the crenelations of the watchtower, it spoke, and his words were a force that shattered the earth and ripped open the sky. Legionaiires and prsioners alike started running. Someone barked orders to bring the civilians to safety and get the battlemages. I simply stared stupidly up at a beast only known from legends and fairy tales. I could not turn my eyes from the creature until I finally heard someone shouting at me: "Hey you, boy! Are you deaf? Get up! Over here! Hurry up! The divines won't gives us another chance!"

It was Ralof, who motioned me to follow him, and apparently had done so for several seconds. Much more practical and determined than I, the Stormcloaks had used the chaos caused by the dragon's attack to free themselves and to retreat to another watchtower. Ralof, not being a man to leave a brother in binds to die, had delayed his escape to look after me. I was numb. In my mind the axe had fallen and my head was too surprised to be still attached to a body for anything other than following the Nord into the tower were some of the other Stormcloaks, including Ulfric Stormcloak had gathered and where I was released of my binds. 

“Jarl Ulfric. What is that thing? Could the legends be true?” Ralof asked his leader.

“Legends don't burn down villages.” the Jarl dismissed the question. He only looked at me for a moment and I could see that he dismissed me as well. I was no Nord, no fighter and had shown none of the spirit and courage that defined a man in this land. To him I was no more than a burden in their quest to escape. An assessment I couldn't but agree with, while it hurt what little pride I had.

“We need...”, he began to command, but I couldn't hear what needed to be done. The whole tower trembled violently when the dragon punched a hole into the second story wall and unleashed a torrent of flames through it, that burned one of the Stormcloaks to cinder in mere seconds. I could feel the heat washing over me down on the ground floor.

Ralof dragged me up the stairs to the new opening when the dragon retreated to find new victims. Gingerly avoiding the blackened corpse and hot walls, I peeked through the hole. Helgen was in chaos. Soldiers tried to hit the dragon with spells and arrows to no effect. Panicking civilians tried to find shelter and half of the buildings had been damaged or were burning in the short span since the dragon had appeared. A dozen feet below us was what was left of the inn. It looked as if the beast had ripped away part of the roof.

“Jump through the roof to the other side.” Ralof commanded and expecting him to follow, I did and was able to break the fall with a roll and regain my balance on the upper floor of what had been the inn. He didn't follow.

“Make your way to the gates. We'll catch up with you.”, he shouted as I looked and waited and returned down the stairs to his comrades, without sparing me a further glance. I felt abandoned, but it was only reasonable to abandon me, I told myself. His responsibility was first to his comrades, not some nameless Breton, and their chances were probably better without me to slow them. At least he had pointed me to a possible exit.

I lowered myself to the ground-floor through what had once been stairs and cut through another building towards the gates, which I found locked and barred. There seemed no way out. Despondent I turned and tried to find a hole to hide in from the dragon's ongoing attacks. Maybe there was a cellar. The earth and stone could hopefully shield me, until this was over.

“There you are.” Ralof's voice sounded to my left as I turned to go back to the ruins of the inn.

I stopped and turned again. Hadn't he abandoned me to flee with his comrades? And yet there he was, a confident grin on his face. 

“The gate is barred. Unless you can fly us out, we are lost.”, I told him.

He gave the gate a short look, then turned to me again. “Shor's bones. Do you always give up that easy?”, he admonished me. “To the keep then. It is bound to have escape tunnels.” He was right. The keep would withstand the dragon's assault easier than the civilian buildings had, and in the novels I had read, they always had secret tunnels, which the hero often used to escape.

We made it into the keep without problems, despite the dragon still circling overhead. Now that the imperial soldiers had had time to gather their wits, archers and mages focused their fire on the beast. The arrows hardly pierced the scales, and the spells mostly splattered harmlessly on the thick hide, but they got its attention. Two runners not attacking it, were not worth the dragon's notice.

After the chaos and noise of the fighting outside, the quiet in the keep was nearly unreal. First I could still hear the fighting , if I paid attention, despite the thick walls and heavy doors shielding us from it, but the deeper we made our way into the building the more distant it became. I nearly deceived myself into believing that I had escaped fighting and death, when we entered a room where we found a dead Stormcloak warrior, his sword wounds proving me undeniably wrong. 

“Gunjar.”, Ralof murmured. The tall Nord closed his eyes for a moment. “We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother.” When he straightened himself again his face was unreadable. “Looks like we are the only ones who made it. Take Gunjar's gear. He won't need it anymore.”, he ordered me.

I took the dead man's war-axe and waterskin. Thankfully the latter was nearly full. My throat was parched and I silently praised the divines as I gulped the lukewarm water down. When I took up the axe, Ralof eyed my grip on the weapon critically and frowned. I probably held it wrong. As far as I was concerned the weapon was completely useless for anything but chopping wood. My mercenary had taught me to deflect the force of a blow over the slant of a blade , to cut and to stab when an opening appeared. Nothing of this seemed to translate to an axe.

“You never fought with war-axes, didn't you?” he asked.

I shook my head. “My only experience with axes is making firewood for an innkeeper on a few occasions.”

Ralof cursed. “What do they teach you in High Rock?" He asked. "No matter. Just swing it in the direction of your opponent. Talos will that we don't have to fight anything tougher than a pile of wood.”

Talos didn't. Ralof had barely expressed his wish, when a closed gate opened and three imperial legionnaires stepped through, one of them the captain who had ordered my execution. With a cry of “It's the Stormcloak rebels! Get them!” she ordered her subordinates to attack and went herself after me, sword drawn. My clumsy attempt at using the axe was easily deflected and the recoil from her block threw the weapon out of my grip. In my haste to retreat, I lost my footing and was reduced to scrambling back from her attacks. It was luck more than anything, that I raised one hand defensively called, on aetherius and threw a gout of flames into her eyes. Blinded, her swing missed me, and while she staggered backwards, I managed to roll away and regain my footing.

For the moment she was disoriented and swung wildly in anticipation of a counter-attack I wouldn't deliver. It was only a temporary reprieve. I was no battlemage. My ability to call and project flames was honed by lighting fires and heating water, neither of which attack with lethal weapons, while one focused on channeling the energies. Luck had allowed me to hit her vulnerable eyes. I didn't trust my luck to land a similar effective blow with fire, ice or lightning again. But there is more to magic than shaping the raw energies into elemental manifestations. Ralof held himself well against his two opponents, but if the captain regained her sight he would be overwhelmed. He needed another fighter to support him. Again I reached into aetherius and called my familiar to maul the thighs of one of Ralof's attackers. A distraction if nothing else.

With his first attacker hindered by ghostly teeth maiming his legs, Ralof's axe broke through the second's defenses and, with an ear-shattering warcry he split the soldier's head. The first, now faced by my familiar and the Nord warrior lasted only seconds longer, and while I still carefully avoided the blinded woman's swings and sought to retrieve my axe, Ralof ended the fight with a decisive final blow.

They were dead. Battered and bleeding their lifeless eyes seemed to accuse me of killing them, and I could feel the bile rise in my throat. I sank to my knees and heaved. I had never killed man or mer before.

“Magic, eh.” Ralof stated the expression in his eyes shifting to disdain. “So I saw right on the cart.” He gave my wolf a glance. “Keep that beast under control.” he added while searching the corpses. 

Ralof threw the captains sword-belt my way. “Take this. Maybe you are better with a sword than with an axe.” I forced myself to smile and took it. I didn't like it, but he was right. A fellow soldier would have been a better assistance.

In a storeroom we found backpacks, dried meat, some not yet rotten vegetables, sleep-rolls, some gold and a few potion vials of minor potency. The seals on the vials were unbroken, so they likely would still be good, and I recognized the symbols for healing and magicka on the seals. They would be good for bruises and shallow cuts or for one more gout of flames, nothing more. 

We made our way deeper into the keep's entrails to a torture room where we caught up with three of Ralof's comrades. I had read about those in novels in the temple. Places were the villain would torture the hero before he would escape and vanquish his foe, or where the damsel suffered cruelty before her rescuer arrived. I had fantasized about proudly suffering until my hero would safe me. The reality were broken corpses, some dessicated because the torturers hadn't even bothered to give them a burial, and my imagination showed me in terrible clarity what the various implements could do to a body. The torturers had found a more merciful end under the axes of the Stormcloaks than their victims had under their hands. It was a side of the empire I had not known. Not consciously in any case. In the temple we all had heard about the secretive Penitus Oculatus, had known that sometimes they had to eliminate traitors, had to work in the shadows, had to resort to unsavory methods to protect the empire from those that wished to crush us under their cruel heels. But that had been romantic stories. The ambiguity tragic, the cruelty redeemed by their unwavering loyalty to our rightful ruler and their inner strength to do what was necessary. This, the stench of death and fear that had settled into these walls and the broken bodies of the tortured was reality.

“Is Jarl Ulfric with you?” Ralof asked his comrades.

“No, we haven't seen him since we split up.” one of them, a tall, blonde woman, carrying a warhammer replied.

“Let's hope he made it out of here alive. See if you can find anything useful.”.

On one of the corpses we found mage apprentice robes and a spellbook. The robes were soiled and much too large for me. But they were also powerfully enchanted and I always took pride in my needlework, and was confident that once I got hold of lye, needles and thread, I would be able to clean and refit them without disturbing the enchantment. While it had not been my path to become one of the temple's healers or enchanters, the mistresses at the House of our Lady had nevertheless seen to it, that I had basic knowledge of enchanting too.

With a silent apology to the dead, I took the garments from the unlucky mage's body and folded them into my backpack. The book I would study later.

Deeper we went, until the stonework gave way to a natural cave with an underground stream. There we nearly stumbled into an imperial ambush. Had Ralof not stopped us because they were audibly discussing their orders, we would have walked right into their swords.

There were six of them, three archers, standing well protected behind a narrow walkway. In the time it would take to overcome the front soldiers, we would be easy targets for them.

It was decided that we would split. Ralof and one of his comrades would engage the front legionnaires, while the rest of us would run over the lowered terrain to distract the archers. Fortunately I only got scratched by one arrow grazing my lower ribs. I set my wolf on the leftmost archer and ignited an oil spill that the Divine's grace had provided at our opponents feet with a gout of flame. Then I dropped back behind a rock until the two Stormcloaks, who had accompanied me had attacked the remaining archers. After seeing the torture room I had less compunctions about stabbing them in the back with the captain's sword, once they were engaged. 

Real fights rarely take as long as the elaborate descriptions in tales, and this one was over in hardly a minute. We succeeded. We even won without casualties. Ralof however, in drawing the opponents had suffered a vicious blow to his thigh that had ripped skin and muscle and had broken his bone. The bloody end stuck out through his skin and the fabric of his leggings. He was lucky no major artery had been ruptured.

“Don't” I shouted as I saw one of the stormcloaks attempting to open the potion Ralof had taken from the storeroom, while the other one pushed ineffectively against the exposed bone. Healing potions would still the bleeding and mend the flesh, but as it was, this would only seal the wound around the open fracture, if at all. The runes on the vials hadn't indicated high quality to begin with.

“What do you mean? He needs to be able to walk.” the woman with the warhammer replied and proceeded.

“The potion won't help. We need to set the bone first, else the potion will mend the flesh and tear it at the same time when it tries to realign the bone and spend what limited potency it has, without helping much.”

“What do you know about healing, mageling?”

“I grew up in a temple. I am trained as a healer.”

“You are a priest?”

“Yes.” I lied without elaborating further.

I tried to remember how Mistress Melisande treated recalcitrant patients and attempted to emulate the calm authority of a healing priestess. Straightening, chest pushed forward, chin level, I walked determinedly towards the wounded Stormcloak, motioning the one mistreating the open fracture to the side. The woman was not convinced and kept eying me suspiciously. Fortunately Ralof was more flexible. Maybe the pain from their ministrations helped.

“Let him try.” he ordered between clenched teeth.

“Are you sure?” the woman asked.

“He probably knows what he is doing. Now do as he says.” Ralof cut her off.

It wasn't pleasant to heal Ralof under the wary eyes of his comrades, but they obeyed his orders and held him down while I cut his leggings open with the sword and carefully set the bone.

“You can cry.” I told him. “I know that it must hurt.”

Of course Nords don't cry. At least not were milk-drinking Bretons could see them. Ralof even managed something akin to a laugh during the gruesome procedure. After the bone was set, I gave him one of the healing potions to assist my work and reached out to Aetherius. Over the next hour I pulled the energies to me, shaping them into the desired pattern, meticulously mending bone muscles and skin, checking sinews and nerves. 

I wasn't used to exerting my healing to such a degree. This was more difficult than soothing bruised flesh and convincing the body to absorb blood from the tissue. A master healer, like Mistress Melisande at the temple, would not even slow down between her patients for an injury like this, but for me it was still a challenge. But I managed. I didn't even leave a scar, and as exhausted as I was in the end, I was glad that I could help. My own little scratch was healed as a byproduct of the energies coursing through me, and if the other Stormcloaks were injured they avoided to show it around me. The three decided to stay back in case Jarl Ulfric came this way, and Ralof and I continued our way alone.

The cave hadn't been traversed in years. We found frostbite spiders and even a bear as we followed the stream through the darkness. Fortunately the latter was satiated and content with declaring her territory. She left it at a threatening roar when we passed in a respectful distance.

Finally we emerged into the light of a late Skyrim afternoon only to see the dragon vanish into the distance in the north.  
“Looks like he's gone for good.” Ralof commented. “This place will be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We better clear out of here.”  
I could only agree. Wearing stained and ripped travel clothes and legion issue sword belt and backpack, I was nearly as likely to get arrested again as Ralof, who in his Stormcloak armor, was a walking advertisement of his political views. It was safe to assume that keepers of nearby inns would be asked for suspicious travelers, and neither of us looked respectable at the moment.

“What will you do now?” I asked, hoping he would again provide me with directions. Traveling with stolen gear and hardly any money was unpleasant enough, but I might have been able to find shelter and work. Now that I had to fear imperial patrols until I could put enough time and distance between myself and the dragon attack, this wasn't an option anymore.

Ralof looked at me for long seconds. There was a kind of resentment in his eyes that I could not quite place. I had healed him and had fought at his side. Surely he wasn't that averse to magic that this didn't count. “The nearest safe town is Riverwood, two or three days along the river on foot. My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill there. I need to lay low for a few days anyway and I am sure she'll help you out too, if you come with me.” he finally told me.

I gladly accepted his offer and we set out to make our way down the road to where the winding band of the White River glittered in the remaining sunlight.


	2. The Road to Riverwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ralof does not like Lucien's calling, but comes to term with it and the two arrive in Riverwood.

We avoided the main road. Ralof led us on half overgrown side-paths and wild-tracks, where we weren't in danger of running into imperial patrols close to Helgen. He mostly kept silent, eyes sweeping the horizon. My attempts at starting a conversation were mostly met with noncommittal grunts, which didn't help with distracting me from my own troubles. 

It isn't an easy task to accept that you have become a killer. It wasn't what I was brought up to be, and it was different from killing animals for food. The men and women who had died on our way through the keep had been sons and daughters to fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters to their siblings, friends to their friends, comrades to their comrades and possibly fathers and mothers to their children.

I kept telling myself that we had only acted in self-defense, that those were soldiers who had accepted the possibility of their death when they signed up for service in the imperial legion, that everyone died sooner or later and that their souls would continue in the afterlife. It helped that I had not known them.

At sunset we made camp under a rock outcropping near the White Rive, that would shield the light of our camp fire. 

“I think we are far enough from Helgen now.” Ralof stated after critically eying me directing a stream of flames to the center of the small circle of stones we had built. “I still can't believe it. Was that really a dragon? A bringer of the endtimes?”

“I didn't know they still existed. I only know them out of legends and songs. Cyrus, the Redguard, once slew one, I heard....” I replied.

“Neither did I. Dragons haven't been seen in Skyrim for ages. Lucky for us this one showed up when he did.” 

“You think this dragon was on your side?” 

He laughed. “Hardly. I doubt even Ulfric could pull a dragon out of his helmet. But if anyone knows what the coming of the dragon means, it is him. If he made it out of there.”

“You have a lot of confidence in him....” I stated half questioning.

Ralof shrugged. “He is my king, and the king of all true Nord.” 

“Isn't the High King chosen by the kings moot? I heard the Jarl of Windhelm killed the High King and the moot refuses to elect a new one, as long as there is civil war.”

Ralof scowled. “High King Torygg was just an imperial puppet. Ulfric challenged him according to the old ways and defeated him in honorable combat. Torygg couldn't defend his throne.”

This was precarious territory, it seemed. “Of course. I am sorry. I don't really understand Skyrim's political situation. It was just something I heard in an inn.” I tried to soothe him.

“Imperial propaganda.” he huffed and fell silent again.

“How did you end up on this prisoner trek?”, I asked to break the awkward silence, while I prepared a stew from the provisions we had picked up at Helgen and some herbs I had picked up on the way.

“I was assigned to Jarl Uflric's guard.” he replied. “We were on our way to Darkwater Crossing, in the south of Eastmarch. The Imperials were waiting for us. We were outnumbered five to one, at least. It was as pretty an ambush as I ever saw. Ulfric ordered us to stop fighting. Didn't want us to die for nothing, I guess.” He paused for a moment. “I thought they were taking us south to Cyrodiil. Parade us around in front of the Emperor. But then we stopped in Helgen, and you know the rest.”

“What about you?” he asked after a moment silence more.

“I was hoping to reach an inn before nightfall. Then your troop came along, something hit me, everything went dark and you know the rest.” I replied smiling. 

“That doesn't answer why you were wandering around there. You said you are a priest. Are you on some sort of pilgrimage?”

“I may have exaggerated a bit about being a priest.”

“You are no priest then? Wait, you told Hadvar that you are from the House of Dibella. What are you then, an acolyte?”

“Of a sort. My task was mainly entertaining patrons at the temple.”

“Entertaining patrons?” Ralof asked obviously not making the connection.

“Conversation, singing, dancing, helping the men relax and appreciate the beauty of the mortal from and the pleasure it can give in the service of our Lady.” I explained, hoping that he would drop the subject.

Ralof stopped short for a moment, then laughed derisively. “A whore? That fits. If the imperials try to execute Jarl Ulfric together with common thieves, why not also with whores?”

I was afraid he would come to this conclusion and sighed. “I am no whore,” I gently corrected him.

“Sure, you just suck cock for money.”, he retorted. “Or didn't your patrons donate to your temple for your services?”

It was not an unexpected reaction. The more physical aspects of the worship of Lady Dibella were sometimes viewed with suspicion, and particularly in Skyrim, it had happened more than once, that a devout follower of our Lady had been run out of town, because she wasn't discreet enough in practising the dibellan arts. It was a faith accepted for women, and indeed the temple of our Lady in Markarth had no male members. But even for women it carried a stigma in Skyrim. A typical nord warrior might avail himself to the services of the temple priestesses, but he would hardly pay them as much respect as he would an – in his eyes – more honorable woman. A male follower of Dibella, especially one in the line of worship I had been most of my life, was one of the few things that they regarded as less honorable than being a mage.

There was also a grain of truth to it. While sex is for many of us a way to venerate our Lady, there were also the needs of the temple, and it was understood that donations were expected. I still resented being called a whore.

“And don't you donate to the priests of Talos for their blessing, or the temple of Mara for their counsel?” I asked back.

“They speak for the divines. Don't tell me waving your ass around is the same.”

He took a deep breath. “Well, it's not for me to judge how you live your life. Just don't mention it in Riverwood. Gerdur will have my head if she ever finds out that I am dragging a dibellan boy-whore into her house. Tell her you are a healer-acolyte of Kynareth or something like that. You fixed my leg pretty good back at Helgen, after all.”

“For a dibellan boy-whore.” I grumbled under my breath and silently portioned out the stew. 

We didn't talk much during the meal. I didn't know what grief Ralof had against me, but I was willing to let it rest, hoping that after a night of sleep he might be more agreeable. Ralof wasn't.

“Remember Gunjar? The man whose axes you took?” he asked after our meal. “A fine warrior and a true Nord. I had sent him ahead and went back to look for you. He probably died because I wasn't there to watch his back.”

I stared at the ground, careful not to meet his eyes. “I am sorry.” I said, hoping to alleviate his anger. It was the wrong answer. Ralof was over me in a heartbeat and pinned me to the ground his face only centimetres from mine.

“You are sorry? Good men died and I don't know whether Jarl Ulfric made it out alive. And for what? So I could pick up a worthless little whore who spouts imperial falsehoods about Ulfric murdering Torygg and lies about being a priest.” he yelled.

He blamed me for his friend's death. Curiously I wasn't angry about it. I wasn't even afraid. Maybe it was mental exhaustion, maybe it was the shock of him turning against me, but I simply went numb internally. I let my body become limp under his weight and looked up wearily into his angry eyes.

“Fine.” I said. “What will you do now? Beat me up? Rape me? Go ahead, if that is what you need. Dibella knows it wouldn't be the first time for me.”

He looked at me dumbfounded and stood up. “You don't even fight.” he murmured and turned, staring into the flames.

“No.” I said as I picked myself up. “I can't. I could hurt you with fire and ice, or I could set a summoning on you. That I could do. But brawling? With you? I doubt I could hit you hard enough to make it worthwhile. And yes I lied. The way your comrades went about treating your leg, they had good chances to cripple you and waste the minor healing potions to no effect. I don't think they or you would have listened to a worthless boy-whore though. Believe it or not, we actually get trained as healers between sucking cocks.”

I picked up the food bowls and the pot and carried them down to the river to rinse them out. “And another thing!” I shouted back over my shoulder on my way. “I never asked to become part of your stupid power struggle. I never asked to get mixed up in an imperial ambush and I never asked you to rescue me. I am grateful for the latter though.”

I stayed away longer than needed and used the time to undress and let the currents of the White River wash the grime and the desperation off me. I really needed a bath before I felt comfortable again. After the last two days I stank like a skeever, the water had stored a little of the day's warmth and it gave me time to clear my head and to think about the situation.

I figured that it was better to give Ralof some time alone after this little scene. In my experience his type needed to brood before they were ready to talk. Otherwise I would promptly get yelled at again with a different pretence. It would have helped if I could have brawled with him, or even if he had simply gone through with it and fucked me right there. Both would have relieved the tension, and I could deal with rough patrons. But the first one was not possible, and Ralof was too honorable a man, to not feel guilty about the latter, after my little speech. Besides, not everyone likes men. 

When I came back an hour later, naked, wet and carrying my clothes and the vessels, Ralof had calmed down and added wood to the fire. He didn't meet my eyes.

I allowed the burning fire to dry me off, before wrapping myself into the blanket of my bedroll, and quietly lying down with my back to him.

“I owe you an apology, healer.” he finally broke the silence. 

I smiled and was glad he could not see it. “You certainly do.” I replied as impassively as possible.

“Neither Gunjar's death nor anything else that happened today was your fault. You fought bravely with us on our way out, and we may have lost those scuffles with the imperials, without your magic.” he continued. “You also probably saved my leg.”

I didn't answer.

“You are also an excellent field-cook.” he added after another half minute of silence.

I still didn't answer.

“So?” Ralof asked after another minute.

“I am still waiting for an apology.”

Ralof groaned. “I was wrong to blame you. Please forgive me.” he finally added. 

I turned towards him and gave him a wry half-smile. “Well, it is kind of nice for a worthless boy-whore that a mighty warrior like you finds it in him, to apologize.” I said, suppressing a grin when I saw him flinch.

“You won't forget that one any time soon, won't you?” he asked with an almost comically pained expression. 

I allowed the smile to blossom. “Maybe in a month. A fortnight if you are nice.” I told him and turned away again. “Good night, Ralof.”

\-------------------------------------

Kynareth blessed us with sunshine and a light breeze the next day and we made good pace. Avoding the road had allowed for some shortcuts that took several hours from our travel time. Ralof told stories about past skirmishes under Jarl Ulfric's command while we walked, and inevitably we came back to the causes of the civil war.

“You have seen the true face of the empire yesterday. Executions without trial. Torture rooms. Do you know that Thalmor troops arrest and abduct honest citizens with no other charge than worshiping Talos?” he told me while we walked down the road.

I had heard about it, but prior to my encounter with what passes as keeping the peace in Skyrim, I had dismissed it as exaggeration. Propaganda to kindle the flames of the Stormcloak rebellion. Now I wasn't so sure any more. 

“You must see that Skyrim deserves to be free.” he continued.

“I think it does, but what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Go to Windhelm. Support our fight for freedom.”

“Are the Stormcloaks short on whores? I thought in times like these there would be enough wenches who need the coin.” I tried to deflect. This wasn't my war. I was lucky to have escaped my execution once. I didn't want another attempt.

He frowned. “I already apologized for this.” 

“What then? I am no fighter. I am not even a Nord.”

“You don't need to be a Nord to fight for freedom and you are a good healer. Talos knows that we could use more of those.”

I wasn't that good a healer. The healing that had brought me to the brink of exhaustion would have been but an afterthought for a true healer like Mistress Melisande. And an endless stream of war wounds would be beyond my skill. I wasn't going to tell him that though. I was glad that he had found something he could respect about me.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

In the late afternoon we reached Riverwood, a settlement at the banks of the White River, dominated by a lumbermill.

“Remember,” Ralof told me as the wooden battlements that marked the edge of the settlement came into sight: “You are a healer-acolyte of Kynareth.”

I gave him a mock-wounded look. “You know, our Lady is the divine of beauty. She is no daedric prince. It is isn't against the law to serve her either, as opposed to other divines I could name. And not all of us serve in the same function I did. There are painters, poets, bards, sculptors, embroiders and chroniclers too.” 

Ralof frowned. “Look, there are enough stories floating around about the Dibellans over in Markarth, and you are not even a woman. And Gerdur has a young son.”

“Uhu,” I nodded gravely. “And if he finds out about me, it will spoil him, and next you know he'll be sucking off legionaries, instead of killing them. Is that what you think would happen?” 

“Just do me the favor, please.” Ralof insisted.

I sighed. It would be rude to antagonize his family after he had helped me. “Blessings upon you, Child of Kynareth.” I replied.

“Thank you. I hope that news from Helgen hasn't arrived yet.” He looked into the evening sun. “Gerdur is probably still working at the mill. Come on.”

A short way towards the lumber mill, we found a woman debranching logs for the mill, with a Bosmer. She looked like a female version of Ralof ten years older in a sensible green woolen dress over a white tunic and working gloves.

"Gerdur!", Ralof called out.  
The woman looked up from her work and her eyes visibly lit up. "Brother! Mara's mercy, it's good to see you!", she exclaimed. "But is it safe for you to be here? Won't the Imperials be looking for you?"

She inspected our somewhat ragged appearance and frowned. "Are you hurt? What's happened?"

Ralof raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Gerdur... Gerdur, I'm fine. At least now I am."

Gerdur didn't seem entirely convinced. "And who's this, little brother? One of your comrades?", she inquired with an appraising look at me, that raised childhood memories of the Mistresses' displeasure when I had teared my clothing or messed up my hair.

"Not a comrade yet, but a friend.”, Ralof replied. “I owe him my life, in fact. Is there somewhere we can talk? There's no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials", he added with a side glance at the mer who had interrupted his work and listened.

"You're right. Follow me.", Gerdur replied after a moment. “Faendal, finish those two logs, then we're done here for today”, she told the Bosmer, who with a curt nod went back to work.

We walked a few minutes to a spot at the waterfront behind the mill. On the way Gerdur called out: "Hod! Come here a minute. I need your help with something."

A good natured male voice answered: "What is it, woman? Sven drunk on the job again?"

"Hod. Just come here.", Gerdur repeated, sounding slightly impatient.

Another Nord, this one with a blond mustache and wearing a frayed white tunic that once had been white, started to climb down from the sawmill. “Ralof! What are you doing here?”, he shouted as he spotted us. “Ah... I'll be right down.”

Ah boy, maybe 10 or 11 years old ran up, to Ralof, eyes shining with excitement. "Uncle Ralof! Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric Stormcloak?"

"Hush, Frodnar. This is no time for your games. Go and watch the south road. Come find us if you see any Imperial soldiers coming.", Gerdur cut the torrent of questions short.

"Aw, mama,I want to stay and talk with Uncle Ralof!", the boy inisted.

Ralof chuckled. "Look at you, almost a grown man! Won't be long before you'll be joining the fight yourself."

That brought the smile back to the boys face. "That's right! Don't worry, Uncle Ralof, I won't let those soldiers sneak up on you."

I wondered whether I had ever been so excited about war. If I was, it didn't last with my upbringing. I was supposed to be demure and pleasant. Frodnar likely wouldn't get that many reminders to smile and speak softly. Maybe he was happier that way. 

My reminiscences were interrupted by Hod's arrival. 

"Now, Ralof, what's going on? You two look pretty well done in.", he asked. 

Ralof gave the man a weary smile: "Where to start? Well, the news you heard about Ulfric was true. The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing. Like they knew exactly where we'd be. That was... four days ago, now. We stopped in Helgen this morning, and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up to the headsman's block and ready to start chopping."

"The cowards!", Gerdur interjected.

Ralof nodded "They wouldn't dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people! All of Skyrim would have seen the truth then. But then... out of nowhere... a dragon attacked..."

"You don't mean, a real, live...", Gerdur asked. 

"I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there.”, Ralof confirmed. ”As strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away. Are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?"

"Nobody else has come up the south road today, as far as I know.", Gerdur replied.

"Good. Maybe we can lay up for a while. I hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur, but...", Ralof began. 

Gerdur didn't let him finish. "Nonsense. You and your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Let me worry about the Imperials.” 

She turned to me: “Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine." 

"Thanks, sister. I knew we could count on you.", Ralof replied.

"Did anyone else escape? Did Ulfric...", Gerdur addressed her brother again.

"Don't worry. I'm sure he made it out. It'll take more than a dragon to stop Ulfric Stormcloak.", Ralof answered. He sounded more confident than he had yesterday, but naturally he wouldn't burden his sister with doubts.

Hod led us to the families house, where I experienced true Nord hospitality. There was a warm meal, there was a bath tub, water was fetched from the river and heated for us, there was soap and Gerdur even lent me her hairbrush – a rather valuable commodity, for which I was eternally grateful. I ended up braiding two strands from my temples to hold the hair back. 

Clothing was a slight problem. Ralof had no problem borrowing Hod's sundas clothes, but anything he could offer was much too large for me. I ended up with an old tunic from Gerdur, which I belted with a strip of cloth. It nearly fell to my knees, but it was clean, and I could live a night without pants. In the morning I would see that I could clean and fix the robes I had lifted from the dead mage in the castle. Exhausted I fell into the bed I had to share with Ralof and into a deep sleep.


	3. Sleeping and other Giants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucien tries to get on his feet again, ends up on his back instead and is quite pleased about it.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Gorr is a character from the fantastic mod [Interesting NPC](http://3dnpc.org) for Skyrim. Credit for funny and intelligent dialog-lines goes to Kris Takahashi. The terrible character derailment is my fault.
> 
> \----------------

The Riverwood trader didn't have clothing in my size. It did however have slightly oversized ones, as well as an assortment of sewing needles, thread, leather, leather shoes, a small tent and a sturdy backpack. I invested most of the gold the imperial soldiers had involuntarily donated into those items and spent most of the day at the river behind the mill, washing and refitting the mage robe from the keep and fixing and refitting clothes. 

By mid afternoon I was dressed in clean, modest, robes and in possession of most necessities for travelling between the cities of Skyrim. It was a much more respectable outfit than Gerdur's tunic, which had drawn some comments from the local lumberjacks. Some of them quite flattering, but not really appropriate towards the wandering healer I was supposed to be.

My next visit was to the town's blacksmith, where I tried to sharpen my sword a bit. I had just gotten permission to use the grindstone and begun to work when a girl, approximately Frodnar's age walked up to me.

“You are doing it wrong!”, she said, after looking at my attempts for a a few seconds. “Give me that.”

After a questioning look to the blacksmith, who gave an amused nod, I handed her the weapon. 

“My father is Alvor, the blacksmith. I am his assistant. I mean apprentice,” she continued in a serious voice while working the grindstone. “See? You want to do it slower and with leveled speed. Otherwise you only dull it.”

The blacksmith had interrupted his work and inspected the blade. “Not bad. Apprentice level work, but solid. Next time don't forget to name your price before you start working.”

The girl blushed. “Oh, that's right.” She brightened up again. “That's one septim.” 

“Your father is right. We didn't agree on payment.” I told her grinning. 

“Uhm. I'll sharpen it again if it becomes dull, if you pay me,” the girl offered.

I gave her two coins. “Two septim. You also explained to me how to sharpen a sword. That's worth something too.”

Alvor, the blacksmith had followed this little scene with quiet amusement. “You must be awfully proud of her.”, I told him as she scampered off.

“Aye, that I am.”, he replied. “Her mother thinks she should do more women-things instead of helping at the forge. But she has talent.”

“Some girls do." I agreed. "On the flip side, I was always better with needle and thread than with hammers.”

“Aye. Sigrid told me there was a stranger in town, sewing clothes. Ain't everyday we get visitors in Riverwood.” He paused for a moemnt. “Word is that a dragon attacked Helgen. Do you know anything about it?”

In a small town like Riverwood everyone would know by now, but apparently Gerdur hadn't mentioned Ralof's and my involvement. It was probably better to keep it under wraps.

“Yes, I was travelling through when it attacked. It burned down the whole town. I barely got away with my life.”

“Then it is true what I saw yesterday. Flying down the valley from the south. I hoped I was wrong.”

We were interrupted by Gerdur heading over from the mill. 

“There you are.” she said. ”Listen about this dragon attack. Someone has to go to Whiterun and tell the Jarl. He needs to know that a dragon is on the loose. Riverwood is in danger. If you do this for me, I will be in your debt.”

I could hardly deny the request. True to my role assigned by Ralof, I had mentioned that I planned to visit the temple of Kynareth in the hold's capital the evening before. It was well enough though. I needed to replace the money the legion had confiscated, and while Riverwood was an agreeable settlement, it had neither an alchemist where I could ask for work as an assistant, nor did it seem in dire need of a healer or other services I could provide to earn a few septims. 

“I could be on my way tomorrow.”, I replied. “How do I get to Whiterun?”

“It is just over the bridge out of town and a few hours down the road.” Gerdur told him.

“Cross the river and then head north. You'll see it, just past the falls. When you get to Whiterun just keep going up. When you get to the top of the hill, you're at Dragonsreach, the Jarl's palace." Alvor elaborated.

“Is there anything I should know about the Jarl?”

"Jarl Balgruuf? He rules Whiterun Hold. A good man, perhaps a bit over-cautious, but these are dangerous times. So far he's managed to stay out of the war. I'm afraid it can't last, though.", the smith answered.

Gerdur seemed to agree. “He's going to have to pick a side. I'm afraid he's going to make the wrong choice. He and Ulfric have been at odds for years, and I'm afraid Balgruuf will end up siding with the Empire because of it. But it's hard to believe that even Balgruuf would choose Elisif over Ulfric."

"I don't think he likes either Ulfric or Elisif much. Who can blame him? But I've no doubt he'll prove loyal to the Empire in the end. He's no traitor.", Alvor added.

“Traitor? For fighting for his own people?”, Gerdur interjected heatedly. “Ulfric's cause is just. It's time for Skyrim to rid itself of the Empire. It may have been good for Skyrim once upon a time, but those days are long past. Banning the worship of Talos was the last straw. Thalmor everywhere, dragging people off for honoring our own gods!”

I didn't want to insert myself into this debate. If his sister was anything like Ralof, it would earn me a sermon if I did. Maybe I could derail it with a question.

“Uhm. Who is Elisif?” I asked.

“Jarl Elisif.”, Alvor answered. “Although only because she was married to Jarl Torryg when he was murdered. Ulfric murdered Torygg, you know. Walked right into his palace in Solitude and killed him. Shouted him to death, if you believe the stories. That's what started this whole war. The Empire couldn't ignore that. Once the jarls start killing each other, we're back to the bad old days."

“It was a lawful challenge in the old way. Ulfric called him out as a traitor to Skyrim, and killed him in single combat. If Torygg couldn't defend his throne, he had no business being High King.” Gerdur protested. Then she gave me an apologetic look and turned again to Alvor: “Are those parts ready yet?”

“I can only hammer so fast, Gerdur.”, the blacksmith replied gruffly.

“They don't have to be perfect. Just send them over when they are done.”, Gerdur said and walked stiffly back to the mill. 

"Stubborn woman." the blacksmith murmured. "Nobody cared about the ban on Talos-worship before Ulfric started his rebellion. Everybody had their little shrine of Talos. But with Ulfric the empire couldn't ignore it any longer."

I was determined not to get dragged into this topic again and took my leave.

After counting my coins I decided to spend the evening at the Sleeping Giant, Riverwoods best and only inn. Aside from being centers of local gossip, inns were where one could usually learn about what places to avoid in the vicinity and where one could find companions to share the dangers of the road or the warmth of a bed. In small settlements like Riverwood, without a local alchemist or healer, they were also an opportunity to get a few septims for curing minor injuries. 

The market for healing was low. I cured a cut one of the locals, a young man named Hjoromir, had suffered while trying to clean the dishes at the inn. It wasn't entirely clear how he managed this, because earthenware is usually rather docile. He had no money, so he offered to polish my weapons and boots instead, which was not necessary. He resorted to regale me with his dreams of becoming a famous hero instead for half an hour, before I managed to extricate myself from his company.

I also got into a conversation with the local bard, a lumberjack named Sven, who tried to rope me into a harebrained scheme to discredit a competitor for the affection of one of the local maidens. It reminded me of a disciple at the temple, who had had a crush on the alteration master, and had approached me with a similar idea. She was 12 years old then. I tried to convince Sven that adults would talk with each other, which would likely foil his cunning plan. He had a good voice, but I wouldn't have sung death threats to Ulfric Stormcloak if I were employed by Gerdur. But maybe I was too cautious in this regard, because nobody seemed to mind. 

He advised me to seek out the Bard's college in Solitude, an option I had already considered for the winter, which is not a good season to wander around in this harsh land. After my short apprenticeship under Anise, I had postponed those planes and had hoped to enroll in the mages college at Winterhold instead. It was questionable whether this was still possible. Even if I could get a recommendation from an established mage, the loss of my money to the legion meant that I probably could not afford the tuition.

And then there was Gorr.

I had resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't find company for the night and sat down at an empty table with a mug of mead, when the tallest Redguard I had ever seen walked up to me.

“You in need of a companion, friend?” he asked. “If so, then you're in luck.”

I took a closer look. He was easily 6'8'' with muscles bulging where bare arms emerged from under an iron cuirass. Bushy eyebrows over piercing brown eyes in a dark face covered by blood-red markings and topped by a single lock of wiry black hair running to the back of the otherwise shaved head. A dominant nose over full lips surrounded by stubble above and a goatee held in check by a leather strip below on a masculine chin. And a voice deep and resonant enough to send shivers down my spine.

It seemed to be my lucky day after all. After the events of the last days I was in need of a companion. I was aching for some company. Preferably tall, good-looking, well-endowed and entertaining company. 

I put on my best smile as I looked up into his face. “Maybe.” I replied inviting him with a gesture to the empty place on the bench next to me. 

“I reckon' I killed more men, than there are minutes in a day.” he continued as he sat down beside me.

I had heard my share of bad pickup-lines. I had suitors trying to chat me up or to tear me down so they looked better, I thought I had heard every sort of silly bragging, but this was the most stupid opening I had heard in a long time. Unless he was serious. There was something intimidating in the quiet power of his movements and in his eyes. Somehow I believed this wasn't just stupid bragging of an insecure warrior. This man was dangerous.

I must have stared at him for a moment too long, because he looked at me quizzically.

“You … you killed more than 1.440 men?” I asked. It sounded slightly croaking and I took a sip from the mead because my mouth felt dry, before slowly backing away from him.

The giant laughed. “That few, huh? At this rate I'll better change it to seconds then. But who is counting?”

I think my expression clued him in to the fact that he was scaring me. Or at least the reasonable part of me. Most of the rest still desperately wanted him to nail me into the nearest furs. Even more so because he scared me, actually.

“Slow down, friend.” he explained with a placating wave of his big hands. “ I said I killed many men. I didn't say they didn't deserve it. They were bandits.”

At this point I finally caught on. He wasn't flirting. He was advertising his prowess as a fighter to a potential travel companion. He probably had seen my mage robes and the healing I had done earlier and thought I could be useful in whatever endeavour he had planned. Why else would he wear his armor in an inn? Maybe he was a bounty hunter. With the state of the civil war, the hold guards were spread thin, and the Jarls had resorted to offering bounties for law breakers. If a bounty hunter succeeded, it was still cheaper than hiring more guards, and if not it was no loss of theirs. Or maybe he was a treasure-hunter. There were always people adventurous enough to chase after rumors of gold and gemstones. Either could profit from readily available restoration magic.

I felt my face heat up because I hadn't understood this earlier. Still, maybe he was amenable to another kind of adventure. 

“How did you manage to kill so many men?”, I asked to get over the awkward pause that had developed.

“It's all in the hips, friend. Killing a bandit is like making love to a maiden. It only lasts a second, and there is no shortage of blood.”

I snorted. “And there is also an inordinate amount of grunting involved. Fortunately I am no maiden. But that's not what I meant.”

The Redguard was now grinning. “True enough, friend. True enough. You see, in times of war and famine, bandits are like cockroaches. A man can't even take a piss without half a dozen bandits holding his prick.” 

I let my eyes wander to his crotch long enough that he couldn't overlook it, which earned me an amused smile. 

“It needs half a dozen, huh?.” I said. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“I got my start as a pit dog in the Imperial City Arena.” he recounted while signalling for another ale. “Worked my way up to Gladiator before I got bored and quit. They say the best techniques are taught by the survivors. I guess with me gone, everyone has something that offer.”

I was hooked. The guy was genuinely funny. “Gladiator, that's impressive.” I commented, hoping he would tell me more.

“I know. And I would've been Grand Champion too, if not for the burden.”

“The burden?”

The Redguard nodded. “Oh, I know what you are thinking. Fair maidens and pretty boys in my bed and good stew in my belly. Some burden. Well, that ain't what I am talking about.”

That last one had sounded serious. “What then?”

“Well friend, it all comes down to who your opponent is. I'm square with killing men, but with a Grand Champion, ain't no more men to fight. So they bring in beasts. Minotaurs and things. Don't like it one bit. If a man chooses to enter the arena, it's what you call his prerogative. A beast ain't got no say in the matter. I kill horkers for food, and bears for hides. I don't kill no animal for sport.”

It made sense, in a way, that he would be a friend to all animals, at least until he became hungry. Gorr, as my new boisterous friend was named, kept telling me stories about the days in the Imperial City Arena, and three mugs later I was still listening enraptured, leaning against him with a smile on my face and images of muscular fighters in arena raiments drifting through my mind. 

“.... and then they noticed that they had no raiment in my size. I had to borrow one from a Breton. That thing fit like a corset on a minotaur. I looked like a sodding carrot. Well...” He likely noticed my slightly glassy eyes, because he interrupted himself.  
“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh yes. I think I had enough to drink though.”

“Want to come to my room here then?”

“I'd love to.” I tried to stand up and swayed a little. I definitely had enough to drink. “Your arm please, Sir.”

Gorr laughed. “Ain't no Sir. Come on, this way.”

In his room Gorr undid the straps of his cuirass and kicked off his boots before he sat down on the single chair and watched me strip out of my robes. It isn't easy to put on a good show with plain mage robes, but he seemed to enjoy it. 

“Do you like what you see?” I asked coily.

He stood up and came closer. “Uhu! You are a pretty little thing. But ain't no man ever been sated by looking.”

I laughed and helped him out of the padded undershirt and began tracing the fur on his chest with my left while slipping my right into his trousers. He had only marginally exaggerated with the dozen bandits, from what I found.

With one arm he drew me close while his right hand grasped my hair and forced my head back for a kiss. Divines, I loved feeling his pure strength. I opened up eagerly and started sucking the tip of his tongue while I continued to massage his massive cock.

After a while he broke the kiss and effortlessly lifted me off my feet and placed me on the bedfurs.

“Just a moment, princess.”, he said as he got rid of his trousers and reached for a pot from his backpack. I recognized the contents. It was usually used to protect the leather parts of armor from humidity, but it had other uses too. 

I propped myself up on my elbows and watched him.

“Lie back.”, he ordered. He slipped one hand under my ass, and propped me up with the roll of furs that was supposed to be a pillow, put some gel on his fingers and started to fingerfuck me with one finger. I squealed when the cold gel slipped behind my sphincter.

It was painfully slow, and I spread my legs further and gyrated to make the most of it. Then he added another one. Still too slow. When I reached up to him he stopped and smiled at my disappointed expression. 

“What do you want?”

Of course. He wanted me to beg. As if there could have been any doubt about what I wanted. But a guy like him had to show me that he could make me, at least the first time. It was a dominance game. On later occasions he would allow me to play, but here and now he was establishing rules. Not that I wanted to complain. I like my men in control, and feeling a little helpless adds to the enjoyment for me."

“Please...” I moaned.

“Hmm?” 

“Fuck me already!” I screamed.

Gorr grinned and shifted position between my legs.“Alright then” he chuckled, caught both my hands in one large paw, pinned them down over my head and pressed his cock against my sphincter. It was big, but he had lubricated me thoroughly. 

Propped up and pinned down like this, I couldn't move much but my hips and so I simply let go, answering and enjoying the steady, powerful thrusts until we both came and waves of pleasure swept away tension and anxiety, I didn't even really know were there any more. I had needed this.

A little later, spooned into his large frame, one dark arm draped over me, I felt safe and at peace for the first time in days. It didn't even bother me that he snored. I hoped he would refrain from calling me princess in front of other people though. Being not that tall and a magic user, it was difficult enough to get some respect from the local Nords as it was.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gorr was still asleep when I woke up. I carefully wriggled out from under his arm, gave myself a quick once over with water from the pitcher, slipped into my robes and out of the door. The big hearth in the middle of the main room was still glowing and Ognar, the barkeeper, was busy stacking wood besides it, while the Innkeeper wiped the tables.

“Some food?” Delphine, the Innkeeper asked me with barely hidden laughter when I stepped into the main room. “Sounded like you might be hungry in the morning.” 

I answered with a quizzical look. 

“Walls here at the Sleeping Giant aren't that thick, lad.”, the barkeeper informed me with a nearly straight face. “Gave us quite the show.”

I groaned. I hadn't thought about that. So much for respect. Without the mead I would have probably remembered a simple muffle-spell that would have given us privacy.

I resorted to ignore Ognar's chuckling and settled for milk, bread and goat cheese. It didn't take long for an extremely smug looking Gorr to join me. I will never understand how one can have roasted goat leg and ale for breakfast, but then I am no gladiator.

“You said you were going to Whiterun, friend. Mind if I come with you?” Gorr asked after we had finished. “Been quiet here, and maybe there's something we could look into on the way.”

I had my suspicions about what Gorr might want to look into.

“I would love to have your company on the way, Gorr, but this thing you want to look into, it doesn't involve by chance a large bounty on some heavily armed bandits who would kill us?”

Gorr grinned. “Don't worry friend. It is not about bandits.”

That sounded moderately promising. Still, it was better to be cautious. “And would you mind telling me what it is about before I agree?” I questioned him. “Just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Well, friend of mine from Riverwood went to look into rumors about Necromancers in Brittleshin Pass some time ago. It's probably nothing, but she should be back by now, and this route to Whiterun is hardly longer than on the main road. It would take a load off my mind if I knew she is fine, if you know what I mean.” 

“Necromancers? …. So we are not only talking about being killed, but also about being resurrected as undead slaves afterwards? Was that why you looked for a companion yesterday?” 

“I could use some magic support on the way. Just in case there are problems.” he replied with a nod.

“Gorr. I am no battlemage. I am not even a full priest. You want a priest of Arkay, if you want to go against Necromancers.”

“Bounty for Brittleshin is still open.” Ognar, who had apparently listened in, interjected. 

“Well, if you are sure, friend....” Gorr began.

Mother Lorraine had always emphasized that I was foremost a servant of our lady and in my calling could not allow myself to bond too closely with one man. Mistress Elaine had often warned me that regardless of how attracted I might be to a man, I never should allow it to overrule my common sense. I don't know how Gorr managed to sound so deeply disappointed in so few words and with this sonorous, rumbling voice of his. Despite the warnings and my training I was never good at saying 'no' to a lover. And there were nearly good reasons to agree. Replacing my travel gear had left me with scarcely enough money for provisions. And there was no telling whether I would immediately find work in Whiterun either. I could use some starting capital and Gorr seemed to be a capable warrior, so maybe it wasn't that insane an idea.

The decision fell against my better knowledge. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“Alright.” I said. “Ognar, can I use the alchemy lab, please?”

“As long as you clean up afterwards.”

“Good. I saw some Blisterwort and Wheat on the shelfs. Gorr pays.” 

He damn well could if I went after necromancers with him. Other men would take me out for dinner, not for investigating rogue mages.

I turned to Gorr. "Just let me brew a few potions and get my travel gear from Gerdur. We can be on our way in two hours, if that is ok with you.”

Gorr gave me a satisfied smile. “You're the boss.” he said.


	4. Brittleshin Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is much culinary consideration, a heroic fight against undead and where the Diamond of Riverwood reluctantly agrees to being rescued by a sub-par saviour.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Zora Fair-Child is another character from the mod Interesting NPC. You can find her [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_mLbUiRlek)
> 
> * * *

Gossip in small towns travels faster than any courier. By the time I was ready to go, I had collected a few disapproving glances from Ralof, who had come to regret that he had introduced me as one of Kynareths reputable healer-acolytes, several insinuations from the local lumberjacks, a threat from Sven to compose a new ballad and a serious effort by his beloved Camilla Valerius to learn about how the redguard warrior was between the sheets. Consequently I was about half an hour late.

Gorr didn't mind. I found him in on the porch of the sleeping giant inn, armored and armed with warhammer and hunting bow, dispensing sales advice to an eager listening Hjoromir. Naturally his reputation hadn't suffered from my neglect to muffle his room the evening before. On the contrary. I on the other hand was glad to leave Riverwood now. At least until someone else became the talk of the town.

It didn't take long until we wandered along the northern bank of the White River towards Lake Ilinalta, chatting amiably.

“.... and after that I simply had to ask Mother Lorraine for leave, so I could see the beauty of Nirn myself.” I ended part of my story. “And what brought you here?”

“The Horkers, friend, the Horkers. I can't get enough of a good bowl of horker stew. Fresh Garlic, tomatoes, a sprinkle of lavender.... mmmm.”

“It sounds as if it could use some carrots. Maybe some minced onions too.”

Gorr laughed. “You keep talking like that, and we need to get you an apron and a chef hat. Also horkers.”

“The last part could be a problem. I never saw one, but as far as I know, they live on ice shelfs in the northern parts. Riverwood isn't exactly the horker capital of Skyrim.”

“That isn't it. You see. I've tried steaks of all different flavors from all over Tamriel. I've tried your venisons and your steaks. I've tried your bug meat,your hoarver pies and your chaurus nuggets. Some wood elf charlatan even tried to sell me what he called a wyvern steak, but it tasted like mountain goat. I've tried every meat from the Summerset Isle to the shores of Solstheim, and aint nothing compare to a fresh pot of horker stew. But you know what I haven't tried? I haven't tried a dragon. And call me crazy, but I think I saw one fly this way not long ago.”

“There was a dragon in Helgen. You probably saw that one.” I told him.

“Then we should hunt the beast, before someone else eats it.” Gorr proposed.

I snorted. “I am glad I got away before it ate me. I don't want to meet it again.” 

“But think of the glory and most of all the meat.” he insisted.

“Glory is difficult to enjoy in the bowels of a dragon. What about cheese? There are also probably several hundred kinds of cheese in the empire you didn't try yet.” 

“Well, love. Cheese is just spoiled milk. I am not really fond of eating that.”

“What about salads? The Sated Centaur in Wayrest offered more than three dozen different salads, when I left.”

“I don't want to eat up my food's food, but maybe you are right. Maybe tomorrow I will try something different, like a vegetable.” He paused, then added: “Buried under an avalanche of meat.”

Despite his culinary visions Gorr was content to live on bread, carrots and smoked fish for lunch, owing to the facts that there were neither farms nor Inns this side of the White River and that he wasn't hungry enough to hunt for game.

We arrived at Brittleshin Pass early evening of the same day. Crossing Lake Inalalta and making your way through the cavern system that formed the pass was the shortest route between the holds of Falkreath and Whiterun, but it wasn't suitable for carts, and the merchants preferred the well maintained roads through Rorikstead. As a result no ferry was running anymore, the old landing stage was deteriorated and the marking flags flying in the wind were ragged and worn. 

It was a good spot for rogue mages who didn't mind living in solitary and on nonperishables. Especially for ones that practiced necromancy, which was opposed by every aedric congregation in the empire and by at least one daedric prince. In more civilized areas it could earn the aspiring conjurer a visit from the local parish with torches and pitchforks, if word got around. 

A bit behind the entrance, the cave widened into a large cavern dimly lit by glowing braziers. Invitingly opened iron doors, that probably had served to block the pass when it was used more frequently, led deeper into the pass. We deposited our backpacks near the entrance. There was no point dragging them into potentially hostile territory, and while Gorr carried the bulk of our gear, mine wasn't filled with feathers either, and I was glad to be rid of the weight. I stretched and looked around.

“Well, what do you think?” Gorr asked in a low voice.

“The braziers are lit, so it looks as if someone lives here.” I replied not sure what he was asking about.

“True enough, true enough.” he confirmed with a slow nod. “But I meant whether you see anything magical around this doors. You see. If I lived here, I would have something in place to tell me when visitors come, and I see no chimes.”

I should have thought about this myself. I opened my mind to aetherius and sure enough there was some kind of magical construct on the floor between the door wings. Frost-attuned, if I interpreted the chilling sensation right, and holding far too much power for chimes.

“There is a trap-rune at the door. It looks nasty”

“Can you disarm it?”

I shook my head. Anise could probably have done it. The Mistresses at the temple could unravel another mage's construct easily, but I was a mere beginner in the art of destruction magic.

“We could try to step around, but it is fairly large, and I don't know how sensitive it is.” I told him. “I can safely trigger it from a distance, that's all”.

“He frowned. “Alright then.”

We retreated as far back to the entrance as possible without loosing sight of the doors, and I shot a small bolt of flames at the center of the construct before slipping behind Gorr's armored frame. Ice formed where it had hit the rune, and erupted with a crashing noise as shrapnels into every direction. One hit Gorr's cuirass and splattered harmlessly on the iron surface.

“That should get someones attention.” I commented.

Gorr had hefted his warhammer and moved it in a relaxed figure eight to loosen his muscles.

“There they are.” he replied with an expectant grin. “Finally some action.”

'They' turned out two be two war-axe wielding skeletons. Fortunately they weren't very fast. I doused one with flames, while retreating along the wall to the side. It didn't have much effect. The blank bones had no nerves that could tell it that it was hurt. But if I could keep this up for an hour or so, the bones would probably char and become brittle.

Gorr's tactic was vastly more effective. He stepped forward, the warhammer traveled in a deceptively slow arc, destroyed half a bony chest and threw the skeleton that had targeted him to the side, before it was even close enough to swing it's axes. A step, a pivot and the hammer fell down from on high to crush his opponent's skull. That destroyed enough of the structure to neutralize the animating force bound to the bones. 

“Over here!” he rumbled.

I reversed direction and sprinted towards him, my heated foe shambling behind me. A step, a swing and the second skeleton was lifted clear of the ground and thrown five feet back. Gorr took two steps more, reversed the grip on his hammer, and drove it straight down on what was left of the walking dead. It too ceased to move.

It was something you sometimes saw in formidable athletes. An economy of movement, a graceful flow of actions following one another. My tall friend had just annihilated the necromancer's first line of defense in five short and efficient steps. 

Gorr rested the head of his Hammer on his shoulder and nodded towards the doors. “And here I was beginning to think I wouldn't get to kill anything. Let us find more.”

I didn't know whether I should cheer or shake my head in disbelief. 

We made our way deeper into the cave, down a slope and a set of rough-hewn stairs to the entrance of another large chamber.

“Who is there? Show yourself.”, a commanding voice demanded.

Was there a possibility to negotiate? Maybe the trap-rune and the skeletons had been only the overreaction of a rogue mage who had had too many bad experiences with bounty hunters or bandits.

I stepped into the entrance. The inside of the chamber was lit, similar to the first one, by braziers. To the right there was a set of iron cages, at least one of them apparently occupied by a woman. To the left a set of stairs led up to a dais with what looked to be a necromantic altar with a fresh corpse, in front of which a man in dark robes and with a bad haircut stood and brandished a staff. Two more armed skeletons flanked the stairs.

I couldn't see more because a strong arm yanked me back. Half a second later a lightning bolt crossed the space I had stood in moments before. The necromancer obviously didn't want to negotiate.

“Careful, love.” Gorr admonished me.

There was no follow-up. Being apparently bent on battle, in an eminently defensible position, with his undead resources at hand and in control of a choke point potential attackers had to pass, the necromancer did not waste energy.

I nodded a silent thank to my warrior and decided to test a theory. I had been taught that hardly any conjurer was able to control more than one summoning directly. One who focused on watching the entry could probably not even do that, which meant that the skeletons acted on their own limited repertoire of responses.

“Get ready for more.” I told Gorr and motioned him back to the stairs. I then prepared a firebolt, stepped into the entrance, fired at one of the skeletons and sprinted back to my warrior as fast as I could. Another lightning bolt hit the ground behind me and the clattering of bones that followed told me that the undead had taken the bait.  
Like their brethren at the entrance they were no match for the hammer.

“You wouldn't by chance give up?” I shouted towards the entrance.

“And be executed because I don't follow some archaic policies about what magic is allowed to do? Set one foot in here and you will replace the servants you have destroyed.” the necromancer called back.

“We have to get to him. Any ideas.” I asked Gorr,

“I reckon' if I cave his chest in he won't be casting spells anymore.”

“With that staff he can keep you under lightning the whole way. Not even you can withstand this.”

“What's the plan then?”

I considered going to the entrance and waiting for the necromancer's vigilance to fade, but there had been at least one more captive in one of the cages, and I didn't want to be responsible for having to fight her too, if we waited too long. We could not afford to delay. Trying to wear our opponent down would only allow him to rebuild his defenses. 

I summoned my wolf, reminding myself that the worst that could happen to it was being banished to Oblivion again.

“I will send the wolf in to circle around the necromancer and attack from the flank. Hopefully it will draw fire.", I told Gorr. "As soon as you hear the lightning, charge straight towards him, I follow and try to blind him from the flank.”

It was a sound plan, I thought. Not especially original, but workable. I had only forgotten one or two little things, which I noticed after I charged in behind my warrior.

The first was that some people are ambidextrous and well coordinated enough to keep a stream of lightning trained on a charging warrior, while pelting a familiar with ice shards from their left. The second was that there had been a corpse on the altar, which wasn't there anymore. The latter was intercepting me, and I was far too busy to evade strikes from the undead's sword to attack the necromancer.

Gorr kept trudging on. Hammer in his white-knuckled fists, teeth clenched with strain he forced himself despite his cramping muscles slowly forward against a torrent of lightning. He couldn't do this for long. It was a miracle that he was even moving.

I couldn't hope to overcome the undead chasing me with force, but there were ways to throw the bound conscience into disarray. I prayed to our Lady to give me focus and blinding white light erupted from my hands. It worked. The undead staggered back and flew towards the entrance in what for a living being would have been blind panic. I set it aflame for good measure, focused on the necromancer and reeled as I tried to draw more of my magicka. I had exhausted my reserves and our opponent had in the meantime banished my familiar. In his left hand another ice shard formed.

Still, I wasn't finished. I had no more spells, but I was always nimble, and there was a rhythm to the shards that I could count from the beatings of my heart. Beat, beat, shard, beat, beat, shard. That was it. Beat, beat, sidestep, beat, beat, pivot, beat, draw, beat, sidestep. Before the next shard had fully formed my sword slid stabbed upwards through the necromancer's sternum. The torrent of spells ceased and the man crumbled to the floor, his eyes accusing me of ending his life.

For a moment there was silence, only broken by the distant steps of a fleeing undead which ceased too, when the magical bond that animated the corpse died with it's creator.

Then I heard a pained groan and when I turned, I saw my warrior slowly falling to his knees, then on his side. Burns from the lightning were visible on the exposed parts of his skin. Parts of them black, parts of them blistering. My heart stopped for a moment. With a few quick steps I was at his side and checked his pulse and breathing. Regular and reasonably strong. I breathed a relieved sigh. 

I had to heal his wounds before scarification could occur, but I had an hour or two until this became urgent. For now it was important that he was stable. I would have given him the minor health potions I had prepared, but if I tried to feed them to him while he was unconscious, chances were that they went into his airways. It was better to wait until I had recovered enough to heal again. Brilliant tactician that I was, I naturally hadn't prepared magicka potions, so it would take some time.

“Is that Gorr? Is he alright?” The woman in the cage interrupted my mental self-flagellation.

“He will be. As soon as I can heal again.” I called to her. “Please wait just another moment and we will let you out.”

I found the keys on the necromancer's body. It was unpleasant to rifle through the clothes of the dead man, but what choice did I have. The third key fit the lock of her cage.

She was approximately my size, like me of breton descent and clad in simple clothes. From the looks of it, the necromancer had given her time outside the cage to tend to her basic needs, which irrationally raised my esteem of him a bit. Not that he was in any shape to appreciate this. She must have been very pretty once, but her assortment of scars marred the impression. Most prominent was a red, hand-haped burnmark stretching over the lower half of her face. Apparently no competent healer had reached her, before nature had taken it's course. She didn't show any signs of urgency or distress. She just sat on the floor of the cage, looking up to me, curious what I might do next, as if she expected me to juggle swords or play a song or do anything else interesting.

“Do you mind keeping that close?” she asked pleasantly.

I was momentarily perplexed. “What? You mean the cage?”

“Well yes. It's quite comfortable in here. But when it is opened there's a bit of a draft.”

I looked at the pattern of iron-bars, then back at the young woman who was still smiling up at me and sighed. I was far to exhausted for this, I decided. Gorr could sort it out, once he was back on his feet. He was the one who wanted to look for her.

“Okay.” I replied and moved to close and lock the door again.

She extended one arm to block the door and pouted. “I was a joke, in case you didn't notice. You are not at all the gallant and unflappable hero I was hoping for.”

I shrugged. “You aren't exactly what I was hoping to find either, but I think we came here to rescue you. ”

She eyed me critically. “Are you now? I wasn't aware that I needed rescuing. But ok, I suppose you will do.”

“So do you come out of the cage?”

“Maybe. I've grown quite fond of it. The iron bars, the pattern of squares.... I guess that's it. But I do like squares.”

I went back to the dais, not really caring what she would do. The woman went into another part of the cavern, where the necromancer had stockpiled provisions. “We have water, wine, mead and juniper berry juice. Do you want something?” she called.

“Water would be nice.” I replied. 

I checked on Gorr again while the woman brought two bottles of mead and a waterskin, and we sat down on the stairs.

“How his he?” she asked after a gulp of mead.

“Still unconscious, but his heart beats strong. I have to heal those burns before they scar.” I laughed. “That's really something they drilled into me: Heal every scratch before it can scar to keep your skin unblemished as a tribute to our Lady.....” I looked into her face and interrupted myself. “I am sorry.” I added sheepishly.

“Aw, don't make things awkward. I am more than comfortable with my own burned skin. But we haven't been introduced. My name is Zora Fair-Child. Although it was never meant to be ironic. I was once very much fair and very much a child. So fair that men would travel great distances to see the Diamond of Riverwood. So fair, in fact, that the divines saw it fit to punish me with this marred and unenviable face.” The momentary sadness in her voice betrayed her upbeat attitude. Then she grinned again. “It is always easier to blame the gods for such things, isn't it?” 

Our Lady's favor was not always distributed fairly, but I doubted she would deal out that kind of punishment. There was nothing I could do about it, though.

“I am pleased to meet you." I replied. "I am Lucien from the house of Dibella in Wayrest.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you too, Lucien of Dibella. I have never met a male dibellan priest.”

“I never took the vows.” I told her after taking another sip. “I just grew up there and served the patrons in the temple.”

Zora gave me an appraising look and smirked. “I bet you were very popular there.”

I laughed. "Thank you. How do you know?" I asked.

"Oh, A woman knows." she replied. 

I took a sip from the waterskin and gave her face a critical look. “Those scars aren't recent. It wasn't the necromancer who marred your face?” I said half questioning.

“Oh no! Necromancers disapprove of having their specimens damaged. I should know. This is the eleventh necromancer who has enslaved me, and all eleven have been as delicate as a Lord with his finest fur. I think this last one was quite exited with his find, until he pushed my hair back.” She sighed. “It makes me so sad to disappoint them.”

It took me a moment to get the water out of my nose after that statement. “Eleven times? You can't be serious.” 

“Oh, I am.”, Zora assured me. “I do enjoy it. There is never a shortage of wizards who like to use this pass as their lair. Nor a shortage of heroes who travel through it. It has become a bit of a game to see what kind of rescuer will show up to save me.”

I considered switching to mead too. It would make this conversation less surreal, but I needed to keep my focus.

“What kind of hero were you hoping for?” I asked after drinking some more water.

“Well, handsome bot not cute. Funny, but not mean. Tender, but not soft. Strong but not violent. Caring but not servile.”, Zora began , “I could go on and on.”

“Hmm. Aggressive, but not impatient. Creative but not obsessed.”, I added.

“And most off all, confident but not arrogant.”, Zora picked up the list again with a nod. She sighed. “The best I ever knew was four of those things, but he failed the arrogance test. He did not just cross the border between confidence and arrogance. He rode across it in a gilded carriage pulled by frenzied mammoths.”

“You have a handsome,muscular, rugged Redguard here." I said. Even more. A handsome, muscular, rugged Redguard who worried enough to look for you.”

“Gorr? Oh I like him. I really do. He is the only person in Riverwood you can really party with. But how long can you talk about horkers and the arena?”

“He has other qualities too.”

Zora nodded with a half-serious expression. “I guessed as much from the way you were looking at him. Don't worry about me. He is just my favorite drinking companion.”

That was good to hear, and the banter had helped restoring most of my magicka reserves. "I better see to it that he gets on his feet again." I told Zora.

"I get my weapons and armor. I think the necromancer stored it somewhere here." she replied and went on her search, while I peeled Gorr out of his and began treating his burns. After maybe a quarter of an hour she came back wearing worn, scale armor and carrying a greatsword nearly as big as she was tall. Gorr was beginning to look better, but still didn't wake up.

“That's a rather big weapon for someone our size.” I commented. 

She frowned. “It's not just for show, although the necromancers seem to think so.” 

“It is just difficult to believe that you can wield this thing. I mean, I see why Gorr can handle something this size, but ….”

She comically stomped with one foot. 

“Nobody takes me serious.” she declared with an exaggerated pout that made me laugh again. “Of course, when my weapon of choice was an amulet of Mara, the boys were quite sure about my intentions, even if that was just for show.” she added. 

“You mean you really fight with that giant steel club?” 

“It took a while until I got the hang of it.” Zora affirmed. “My body paid quite a price for my lessons and I have more scars than skin now, I am afraid. Yet I am a capable fighter and if it is adventure you seek, I am but your humble servant. The Fjori to your Holgeir, the Eadwyre to your Barenziah, the Housecarl to your Jarl.” With the last sentence she assumed a dramatic wide-armed posture, which I deliberately ignored.

“I just figured that you would be more the type to be an archer.”

“I can nock an arrow as swiftly as I can severe a head.” she declared. “But it isn't nearly as much fun. And I can cast a few spells as well, although I am not the prodigy my sister was.”

"I am convinced, but after seeing Gorr nearly die today, my appetite for adventure is somewhat diminished." I said.

Gorr chose this moment to reenter the land of the conscious.

“Damned mage. I nearly got to him before you finished him off.”, he muttered and tried to sit up.

“You would have beaten him easily, love.” I assured him and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “But stay down. I am not done healing.” 

“I am fine, princess.” he insisted and tried again to stand up, only to have his legs buckle under him.

“You are not.” I gave him two of the healing potions after he sat down again. “Drink, it should help.”

Zora was shaking with laughter after listening to us. “You are a princess too? He used to call me this when he was drunk.” she interjected.

“Gorr seems to think so.” I replied while I made sure that he drank the potion. “But no, not really. Although with him as my gallant knight....hmmm” I pondered.

“And you would look so pretty in a silken dress and with a diadem. We could style your hair in ringlets and get you jewel-studded combs....” Zora spun it further. 

“But that outfit would not be very practical for wandering around Skyrim.” I objected.

“That is a concern. Prince it is then. Or maybe Jarl. This way you can dress like you want.” she decided. 

“Zora!” Gorr, who had followed our latest exchange, roared. “It is good to see you. You missed our dice evening.”

“Ah, so that's why you are here. What were you thinking, running into those spells like that?” she scolded him. 

He gulped the second healing potion down and managed to stand up and drape an arm around my shoulder. I leaned into it. It felt nice to belong to someone. “Lucien told me to.” he simply answered.

It stung because it was true, although Gorr did not mean to accuse me. Nevertheless, it was my plan that had brought him into a position were he had taken the brunt of the assault, intentional or not. Fortunately for me, Zora didn't comment on it any further. "So what now, my jarl? she asked me instead. 

“Am I now the leader of this group?" I asked back. "My valiant knight seems to be on his feet again, so I think we should see what we can use of the necromancer's possessions and be on our way. I am actually on an errand to tell the Jarl of Whiterun about a dragon.”

“A dragon?”

After a few explanations about Helgen Zora's eyes were sparkling. “This is exciting, my prince. We must inform the Jarl at once and investigate where this dragon came from” she demanded.

“It is only an errant.” I tried to dampen her enthusiasm. “I will tell the Jarl about the situation and then look for work, to replace my lost money. Boring and safe work. I neither want to be eaten by a dragon, nor do I want to be enslaved by necromancers.”

"We will see. Maybe you change your mind, once we are there." she said undaunted by my lack of heroic zeal.

Gorr went to fetch our tents and backpacks, while I searched through the necromancer's magical equipment and Zora inspected the stash of gold and jewelry he had acquired from his victims. I found an enchanted dagger as well as several soul gems. There was also an enchanting altar, which I used to learn the fire-damage enchantment(*) on the dagger.

The spoils Zora found would allow me to live comfortably in an inn for three or four weeks, even after we split it evenly between the three of us. I forced myself not to think too much about the previous owners. The necromancer's provisions would allow me to cook significantly better meals in camp than what we had brought with us. I had to admit, that the side-trip had been profitable.

We made our way to the north-side of the pass, with little interruptions, only stopping once for Zora to shoot a soul gem out of a spell trap from 50 feet away, long before it became dangerous to us. She had been here before. After reaching the northern exit we looked out for a moment, listened to the rain pouring down and decided to pitch our tents inside the pass. There was still half a days walk to Whiterun, and nobody fancied traveling wet and in the dark.

I gave mine to Zora and shared Gorr's. And this time I remembered the muffle-spell.

* * *

###### (*) Spells and Enchantments

_When it comes to enchantments, there are two ways to learn them. The first involves meditating about the desired effect for a few weeks, until one has finally developed a structure, that will bind the magical energies to an item. This is how new enchantments are developed, and only the best enchanters can do it with any semblance of reliability. We lesser trained people use an enchanting altar to read the structure of an existing enchantment out of an item directly in our consciousness. Downsides include that the process reliably transforms expensive items into worthless dust and a serious risk of pounding headaches, when a complex magical structure is forced into ones mind. A health potion helps with the latter._

_A similar principle applies to learning spells. Spellbooks, as they are sold by court-wizards and synod-mages, are inscribed in a special process, which allows for the basic spell structure to be directly accessed, provided the reader's mind is trained well enough in the respective school to understand it. The first spell I learned this way left me disoriented for three days. Since then I prefer to learn them by developing the effect myself according to instructions from a teacher. It takes a few days this way, but it feels less foreign to me and doesn't make me feel dizzy._


	5. Message to Whiterun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucien tries to be a respectable citizen and ends as a criminal
> 
> * * *

Kynareth's grief had lasted only as long as the darkness of night, and when we exited the pass in the morning and prepared breakfast, the divines graced us with clear skies and the scent of damp grass

Whiterun. The Capital of Whiterun Hold, rose like a squat tower in the distance, when we reached the surrounding farms in the afternoon. The city was built in layers around the sides of a hill, with an impressive palace at the top. 

“Whiterun. Home of the fabled companions. They are the fiercest warriors in all of Skyrim.” Zora exclaimed, pointing at our destination.

Gorr snorted. “I met them. I spent a few weeks in the Dragonsreach dungeon. It took three companions to haul me in.”

“Oh, I asked. What did you do?”

“Dont know what for.” Gorr answered with a shrug, “But I reckon they had good cause.”

“In High Rock you usually get told the charges, before they throw you into a cell. But after my experience with the legion, this may be different in Skyrim. So those companions are the guards here?”

“Oh no! They are famous warriors.”,Zora explained. “Be it stolen goods or marauding bandits. If the pay is right the companions can help you.”

“Mercenaries then.” I nodded understanding. “I guess they aren't worse than corrupt guards. At least you only need to have money instead of a title, if you want to take the law into your own hands with them.”

“Their deeds of glory and valor are legendary.” Zora objected.

I shrugged. “I have to trust your word there. From what I know about the Fighter's Guild chapter in Wayrest, the legendary deeds mercenaries perform include intimidating delinquent debtors independent of their ability to pay, and beating up citizens who have slighted a noble or wealthy merchant. I have seen a few who encountered them during my restoration training. Mostly broken arms, legs or jaws. I usually try to avoid....”

“There is fighting over there.” Gorr interrupted our discussion with a nod ahead.

On a field ahead a tall, burly man wielding a greatsword and a woman using sword and shield were engaging a giant wielding a bone club bigger than the man, while a second woman, with diagonal camouflage stripes on her face, supported them with a bow.  
When we arrived the giant fell with an earth-shattering crash.

"Well, that's taken care of. No thanks to you.", the woman with the bow remarked.”

Gorr was unfazed. “Didn't look as if you needed help.”

"Certainly not. But a true warrior would have relished the opportunity to take on a giant. That's why I'm here with my Shield-Brothers." She replied.

I couldn't resist to chime in. “If you ask me, if we three had started beating on the giant as well, it would have been less of a challenge and spoiled your opportunity.”

"Nobody asked you, milkdrinker.” She snapped. “If you think you're better than we are, go talk to Kodlak Whitemane. See what a warrior of true mettle is like."

“I am sorry, but I never heard this name before. Who is he?”

"An outsider, eh? Never heard of the Companions? An order of warriors. We are brothers and sisters in honor. And we show up to solve problems if the coin is good enough.”, the woman explained. “Kodlak Whitemane is our Harbinger."

“Thank you.” I replied. “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, but we must be on our way.” I added and continued my way to the city gates. I didn't want to get into an argument with the local sellswords. A lot of them were rather vindictive if their ego got bruised. 

“So what does my hero think of them?”, Zora asked after we had put some distance between us and the Companions.

“The one with the bow seems to be no ordinary mercenary.”, I said. “She sounded more like an especially priggish mercenary. ” 

“But surely you agree that it takes courage to fight a giant.”, Zora insisted.

“Yes, it does. But you heard the true warrior. They only show up if the coin is good enough, so someone probably paid them handsomely to show their mettle. I wonder how much you have to pay them for testing themselves against a dragon.”

When we crossed the drawbridge between the outer and the inner walls we were stopped by a guard. “Halt! The city is closed with the dragon's about. Official business only.”

“I am here on official business.” I declared. “Gerdur of Riverwood sent me to ask for the Jarl's help in defending Riverwood against this danger.”

The guard regarded us appraisingly, his eyes lingering on Gorr's warhammer, my travel-stained mage robes and Zora's greatsword. “You don't look like you are from Riverwood. You look like you could be trouble.” 

He wasn't the sort to take risks on a stranger's word alone, and he was in charge of the gate. I had to offer him a possibility to fulfill his guard duty, while letting us in. “I am not from Riverwood.” I explained. “I escaped the dragon attack at Helgen to Riverwood and I am on an errand for a citizen of Riverwood. But I see that you have to be cautious. I ask respectfully that you or one of your subordinates escort us to the Jarl's palace.”

The guard came to a decision. “You were at Helgen?” he asked. “Then the Jarl will want to see you. Follow me!”

I hadn't been to Whiterun before, but I liked it. It was a well maintained city. The central road leading up to the market was clean and the buildings lining it in good condition and generously spaced. The market itself featured an assortment of stalls with a rich variety of meat and produce.

“This is the plains district. It has most of the shops and inns.” Zora explained. She pointed at a wide set of stairs our guide was heading to. “Up there is the wind district with most of the better residences and the temple. And of course Jorrvaskr, meadhall of the companions. They say the city was built around it”

“Around a mercenary chapter?” I asked back.

“The companions aren't simple mercenaries, my prince. They are warriors who can trace their line back to the original 500 companions of Ysgramor himself.” She paused. “And I like that they live in an upside-down boat.”

“It is original.” I admitted. 

After another few minutes we reached Dragonsreach, an impressive building with doors flanked by pools of water reflecting the light and fed by a mountain stream, that continued it's ways down to the Wind District in two glittering bands besides the stairs leading up, and then all the way down to the gates. The constantly renewed water gave the air here a refreshing touch.

The doors opened to a great hall, flanked by narrow, stained glass windows that allowed the evening sun to paint patterns of light and shadow on the floor, interspersed with banners and bookshelfes. The hall itself reached many men's heights upward, supported by elegant buttresses and lead up to a large central hearth, surrounded by dining tables until it finally ended at a dais on the northern wall. Upon the dais stood a throne, visible through the heated air from the heart, upon which sat a wiry man of indeterminate age, wearing a jeweled circlet, flanked by guards and surrounded by what was probably his hirth.

I was somewhat at loss about how to proceed. Our escort had exchanged a few words with the guards at the door and left us to our own devices. The guards made no attempts to inform the Jarl that someone wanted an audience. Well Skyrim was probably less formal than the courts in High Rock. It was possible that commoners with messages simply walked up to the Jarl, I thought and made my way towards the dais.

We were only halfway up the hall, when a Dunmer women departed from the group around the throne to intercept us with her sword half-drawn.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?”, she demanded to know. “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors”

Gorr didn't like being approached with a half-drawn weapon and had one hand on his warhammer. Zora decided in a moment of solidarity to reach for her blade too.

“You draw this sword, friend. You are dead.”, Gorr rumbled.

I winced. I had wondered how I would get the Jarl's attention. I hadn't considered starting a fight with his hirth in their own hall. It worked very well though. Within moments we had everyone's attention and the hall had gone silent.

The Dunmer looked less than pleased.

“Please don't do anything rash.”, I pleaded. “We only wish to deliver a message to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.”

“I am the Jarl's housecarl.”, she responded with a scowl that could have curdled milk. “Anything you have to say, you can say to me.”

“I am very sorry, but Gerdur in Riverwood tasked me with delivering the message to his Grace personally.”, I insisted. The Dunmer was not impressed. Luckily the Jarl himself seemed to take an interest now.

“Let them come up, Irileth.” He called down to us. “I want to hear what they have to say.” 

“I am watching you.”, the Dunmer hissed to Gorr as she gave way. “Draw that weapon and I'll haul your remains into the dungeon.”

I wasn't really sure about how to correctly introduce myself to a Jarl. I figured he might be equivalent to a margrave or possibly a duke. Skyrim might be less formal than the courts in High Rock, but it was probably better to err on the side of caution.

I stepped up to 8 feet distance and bowed deeply. “Thank you for lending us your ear, your grace.” I said.

The Jarl chuckled. “You are clearly not from here. The title is simply Jarl. There is no need for imperial court manners. Now what is this message you were talking about?”

“Gerdur of Riverwood calls for your help in protecting the town, my Jarl. The dragon that attacked Helgen flew in it's direction.”

“Gerdur? The woman who owns the mill?”, the Jarl inquired.

“The same, Jarl Balgruuf.”

The Jarl frowned. “She is a pillar of the community and not given to flights of fancy. If she believes that Riverwood is in danger, we will have to take it seriously. We were just discussing those rumors of a dragon attack when you entered. Are you sure this wasn't some Stormcloak raid gone wrong?”

“I saw the attack on Helgen with my own eyes. It was a dragon.” I insisted. 

“You were at Helgen? Report then.” the Jarl demanded.

And so I did, although with the omission of what exactly I was doing in Helgen, and how I had escaped. Fortunately the Jarl didn't consider those peripheral factors necessary to gain a picture of the situation. Explaining that the legion had tried to execute me without cause or trial, and that I had escaped only with the aid of what probably amounted to a terrorist organization, would likely not have helped my credibility. 

“What do you say now, Proventus?”, the Jarl addressed a balding Imperial in his staff. “Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

"My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains...", the Dunmer suggested.

"The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him.", the Imperial objected.

"Enough!”, the Jarl shouted and turned to the Dunmer. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

"Yes, my Jarl.", the Dunmer replied.

"We should not...", the Imperial tried again, but the Jarl wouldn't let him finish.

"I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!", he shouted.

The imperial took this as a sign to stop arguing. "If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties.", he stated and turned stiffly away.

"That would be best." The Jarl could glower with the best.

“Well done.”, the Jarl addressed me again. “You did us a service. Is there anything I can reward you with?”

“I was robbed by bandits a few days ago. If you would just allow me to stay in your city for a while, so I can find work to regain my means, I would be more than satisfied.”, I replied.

“What sort of work do you expect to find here?”, the Jarl inquired.

To earn money as a singer or lute-player, I would have to find a good instrument first. And with the only house of our Lady in all of Skyrim not only being in Markarth, but also being restricted to women, approaching the temple wasn't an option either. I would have to rely on other skills.

“I am a passable healer and alchemist, and I am sufferably proficient in the other schools of magic. It was my hope that the court wizard or possibly a local alchemist would require an assistant.”, I said.

“A healer? Then I am sure the temple of Kynareth will welcome your help. The same civil war that drains our coffers so we can't offer protection to travelers, floods the temple with wounded. I am not sure how well the temple pays though. I will also introduce you to Farengar, my court wizard. He can be a bit … difficult.”, the Jarl paused for a moment frowning. Then his face brightened again and he continued “But you wear the robes of a mage too. I am sure he will welcome the opportunity to help a colleague. Come be my guests for dinner.”

Farengar Secret-Fire, the court-wizard, was a scholarly man, to whom I was introduced during the dinner. He seemed quite pleased to have someone to talk to, who not only understood magical theory, but who was also widely disinterested in the ongoing civil war. A topic he had grown to despise due to its ubiquity. We got along quite well over venison and mead, and while his current project didn't require an assistant at this stage, he invited me to use his library as well as his laboratory if I needed to. An offer I planned to use extensively. For lodging we were directed to the Bannered Mare, which was purportedly the best inn in Whiterun, and Farengar generously wrote a note of recommendation for the local alchemist, after he had confirmed my understanding of the basic theory.

“What will you do now?”, Zora asked as we made our way down the stairs from the palace.

“Find this inn, hopefully get a large tub full of hot water and some soap and spend the next two hours soaking.”, Lucien replied. 

“What about you, Gorr?”

“Well, friend. A bath sounds about right. And for afterwards I hope you are up for a little action.” My warrior said.

I grinned and attached myself to his arm. “I'll think about it.”

“That was not what I meant, my hero.” Zora said. 

“Oh, you mean tomorrow? I will try to get in touch with this alchemist, Arcadia, and see whether she needs an assistant. I'd like to study at the College of Winterhold during the winter, and that means I will need money for living and tuition.” 

Zora gave me a disappointed look. 

“Look, that last adventure nearly killed Gorr. I think it is a lot safer if I stay here for a while and then stick to the roads.” I added.

“It also saved my life.” She objected.

“And didn't you say yourself that there is never a shortage of heroes? I don't think I have to join their ranks.”

Zora sighed. “Alright. I will go back to Riverwood tomorrow. If you change your mind, ask in the Winking Skeever. I'll make sure to leave them word about where I am going.”

* * *

Six weeks had passed since my arrival in Whiterun, and it had been mostly good ones. Arcadia, a middle-aged apothecary had been only too happy, to do a favor for the court-wizard and found my skills sufficient. The ongoing civil war kept the demand for healing and remedies high, and provided both a master and a journeyman with a steady income. 

The temple of Kynareth on the other hand, like most religious institutions, did not believe in monetary compensation for healing services, at least not for healers without affiliation to their clergy. The professional exchange with priestess Danica Pure-Spring and Acolyte Jennsen, as well as the variety of challenges, however broadened my horizon and made more than up for my otherwise unpaid work in my hours there. 

The most profitable part of my attempts to earn tuition for the College of Winterhold however involved the hunter Anoriath and the proprietors of Warmaiden's. While Whiterun's most iconic warriors relied on their own blacksmith, and eschewed magical means, the blacksmith shop situated at Whiterun's main street, near the gates had a reasonably steady stream of adventurers and mercenaries as customers, who were prepared to pay a little bit more for additional magical protection on their equipment. Something that wasn't easy to come by, because the only qualified enchanter in Whiterun, Farengar Secret-Fire, was paid well enough by the Jarl and not inclined to provide enchanting services to the public.

The court-wizard had no objections however to ordering a regular amount of soulgems from his suppliers for me with only minimal markup. I had invested my first gains in a soul trap enchantment and convinced Anoriath, who went out daily for hunting game, to carry an enchanted bow and an assortment of said soul gems, which – once filled – I would buy back from him for a reasonable price. I then made an arrangement with Ulfberth War-Bear and Adrianne Avenicci, the couple that owned Warmaiden's, to provide me with samples to analyze enchantments, in exchange for two or three free enchantments per sample, and following enchantments for an appropriate fee.

As a result I spent a few hours per week at Farengar's enchanting workstation, practicing my enchanting skills with the benefit that after a while every enchantment resulted in a small additional bit of profit for me, Anoriath and warmaidens. I had tried to convince Eorlund Greymane as well, but enchanting weapons and armor did not go well with the spirit of the companions.

And with all this I found time to study in Farengar's library and develop a few spells too.

Gorr however was gone. In the first week he had talked me into clearing out a bandit hideout near Whiterun with him, which went well enough. Due to my newly acquired pacification spell we even managed to arrest two of the four bandits and to deliver them to Dragonsreach. 

But between my business ventures, my healing practice and my studies, I was hard pressed for time, and often found excuses not to accompany him. After three weeks Gorr, had made it loud and clear that my skill and enthusiasm in bed did not suffice to compensate for my nearly constant unavailability. Asked to decide between my man and my studies and business, I had been calm and collected, had expressed regret that it was over, had spoken of my hope that we would stay friends, had helped him pack, had given him a few spare healing potions, had bidden him farewell with a hug and a kiss, and only when Gorr had been on his way down the road from Whiterun, had I walked back to our room at the inn – now mine - and had cried.

It had not been difficult to find other companions for the night. A few of the guards were more then willing. All the more because I didn't demand any deeper commitment. None of them gave me the feeling of belonging I had gotten from my warrior anyway. And it had netted me a stern talk from Arcadia, who was quite unwilling to accept that not being a woman, I had no need to behave like a respectable one. As a man, I argued, I might be judged by my unwillingness to brag, brawl and booze, but hardly by the number of men I slept with.

That was then. Now I had two cracked ribs, a black eye, several bruises, problems breathing through my nose and was sitting on a bench in the Dragonsreach dungeon, charged with crimes against Whiterun and waiting for someone to hear my case.

Half an hour earlier I had been working on a batch of healing potions when a veritable man-mountain, clad in heavy armor with wolf insignia and dark war paint around the eyes had entered Arcadia's workshop.

“Nazeem said to teach you a lesson.”, the armored giant had declared and had proceeded towards me with fists raised.

Nazeem, was another citizen of Whiterun. The owner of Chillfurrow Farm. On my second day in Whiterun I had been on my way down from Dragonsreach when the man had approached me and had asked in a very condescending tone: “Do you get to the Cloud District very often? Oh, what am I saying - of course you don't .“  
I wasn't really irritated by it. In the temple a little mutual cattiness with my sisters and brothers wasn't unusual and so I had simply raised my voice an octave and replied: “Oh dear! No! I mean, sure, it has a certain rustic charme, but it is so provincial, don't you think? It is not even close to the splendor of a civilized city like Daggerfall or Wayrest.”  
That had left Nazeem speechless and from then on, whenever we crossed paths there had been an exchange of barbs, which I found rather amusing. Until three days ago, when I had overheard Nazeem talk to old Fralia Graymane. That he had alluded to me having no class didn't bother me. That he had declared me a slut neither. But casting me as an unreliable business partner crossed a line.

It was admittedly childish, but after some research in the library and with what I had learned from Anise, I developed a simple curse. Half a day after I had hit Nazeem with it, he developed a rash that spelled out the words 'slandering bitch' in neat, orderly letters. Repeatedly. Over his whole body and face. I expected it to take three days to heal without causing any further damage.  
Nazeem got rid of it in one day, by visiting the temple where Danica and Nazeem's wife Ahlam - after recovering from a very undignified giggling fit - dispersed the magical charge. Finding the one responsible was easy enough. There weren't many practitioners in Whiterun who could do something like this, and Nazeem knew better than to squabble with court-wizards or high ranking priests.

From my point of view we had been even after that. Nazeem however had apparently resorted to traditional nord methods of conflict resolution and had hired this mammoth disguised as a man to break a few of my bones in retaliation.

I had tried to avoid the fight, but the armored mammoth had not been interested in hearing my explanations. After being repeatedly hit by metal-clad fists with enough force to break my bones, if not for the oakflesh-spell I had barely managed to cast in time, and after the steel-clad giant had shaken off my pacification spell without much problems, I had fled out of the back door and had summoned a flame atronach, before putting more distance between me and the armored menace.

Elemental atronachs, especially the fire-variety are simple and easily satisfied beings. If one pointed them at something one wanted burned or only heated, they were perfectly happy to throw fire at it all day, needing very little supervision. They were also pretty fast.

My atronach had led the companion on a merry chase along the inner city wall, constantly throwing fire-bolts, most of which the warrior had skillfully deflected with his weapon, until the steel-clad man-mountain had managed to corner and disperse the summoned daedroth with his greatsword.

I had just begun to summon it again, in case the warrior still wanted to beat me up, when two guards had approached me with swords drawn, and had charged me with crimes against Whiterun and her people. I didn't resist the arrest and was escorted to the Dragonsreach dungeon, were I was told to wait, until someone would call me.

It took three hours. Time I used to mend my wounds. Then the voice of the Jarl's housecarl shook me out of my trance.

“Lucien of Dibella. I remember you. Some of my men spoke highly of you.” she said. It was clear from her tone that whatever praise her men had uttered, hadn't raised her esteem of me.

“Greetings housecarl. I am sure this is just a misunderstanding.” I replied as amicably as I could, given the circumstances.

“Is it now?” She sneered. “Let's see. Danica Pure-Spring testified that someone assaulted Nazeem with magical means. Nazeem strongly suggests that you were the only one with a motive. What do you say?”

I flinched. “It was a silly prank, housecarl. But in my defense, Nazeem was slandering my good name.”

“I doubt there was much to slander.” she dismissed my objection. “And if it were true, you should have challenged him to honorable combat, or if you are too pathetic to fight, you should have appointed a champion to fight for you, like he did.”

“He hired a thug to break my bones in retaliation.”

“Watch your tongue. Your reputation is bad enough without you badmouthing one of Whiterun's finest warriors.”

“Is it now honorable for a trained fighter, clad in heavy armor to march into Arcadia's workshop to beat up an unarmed and unarmored artisan half his size, without giving him a chance to explain?” I protested. "Is it honorable to assault a weaker opponent?"

She frowned. “If you could not defeat Nazeem's champion, you should have submitted, admitted that you are in the wrong and offered reparations. Farkas is a honorable warrior and would have accepted your yield. Instead you cowardly summoned a daedric spirit in the midst of Whiterun to assault him.”

“He seemed determined to beat me to death, housecarl." I retorted. "Your honorable warrior did not offer me an opportunity to yield between pounding me with his steel-gauntlets.”

Irileth pondered this for a moment, then her face hardened. “Every child knows to yield or to fight for their right in such a situation. I cannot believe you did not." She finally declared. The housecarl straightened and looked imperiously down at me. "I have heard enough. You are stubborn and unrepentant and there are no extenuating circumstances. You will donate 500 Septim to the temple of Kynareth as penance and to account for the treatment Nazeem needed due to your assault. You will also pay 500 Septim to the Companions as compensation for the burns Farkas suffered, while he dispersed the dangerous daedric spirit you have summoned. In addition you will pay 500 Septim to the city of Whiterun for disturbing the peace and endangering her citizens.”

It stung. I could pay the sum, but it was a lot of money for me. It stung more because I was supposed to repay my assailant for the consequences of assaulting me.

“Furthermore,” she continued. “You will spend 3 weeks in the Dragonsreach dungeon for your crimes against Whiterun and her people." "Guards!" She shouted. "See that he hands over the money, then lock him up.”


End file.
